I Will Rise
by wjjmwmsn5
Summary: Thirty-six will go in; one will come out. One will rise just strong enough to make it through. "I am small. I am nothing compared to this world and the Capitol, merely a play piece in these pretty, pretty Games. But I will rise, strong and tall. And no one will be able to bring me back down." This is the sequel to I Will Not Bow. Rated T because of violence and mild language
1. Chapter 1: Shine

**__A/N: OMG. THE SEQUEL. *major squeal* It's here! I have a lot planned. Okay, by a lot I mean just the POVs up to the BB chapter... But hey! To get a victor you have to start out with the first chapters.**

**Now, I want to explain a few things and also show you my tireless effort to this story. First, I shall start off with a story. **

**I tend to procrastinate. A lot. I am looking into getting Write or Die, but until I do, I have a method to get past the reapings ASAP. I have these silly little district buttons that I put on my picture board thingy in my room. They are kind of kiddish and, well, definitely a disappointment to the THG fandom to wear pins. But I am making myself wear the one for the reaping I am on. I've lost D2's, so now I'm going to have to wear the 12 and the 10 until I get D2 reapings done and have to explain, "It means twelve minus ten, for District Two." Once the reapings are over, I can go back to wearing the pendant, earrings, and my good, non-broken, non-suckish pin. (P.S. Don't wear giant mockingjay earrings after not wearing earrings for a month, kids. Side affects include but are not limited to: Wanting to rip your ears off, randomly massaging your ears in class, getting odd looks, crying out - loudly - in lunch because your hair got stuck in them and it burns... etc.) **

**And now, to explain why Miss Diode has a massive POV and Adelina and Daphne have POVs like elves. Due to the three tributes per district, I am choosing a main POV for each reaping. But don't worry, having a main reaping POV counts as a tribute's three Capitol POVs, and the Bloodbath counts as a Capitol chapter for me. And Capitol chapters like training and train rides will have twelve POVs due to the thirty-six tributes and lack of POVs.**

**And last thing before we begin. If you have a reserved spot and the tribute is not turned in by three days after D2R's are posted, I will be giving the spot to someone else who will get me the tribute ASAP. If you don't have time and want to just give the tribute spot away now, no harm done. Just PM me. :-D**

**_D1- 18- (Gleam Diode)_**

I sigh at the potted plant and take another bite of my tasteless toast, not bothering to wrinkle up my nose even though Mother is right there, eating, and would normally get frustrated with me for turning up something she made. But today, I don't think she'd care if I set the house on fire; she just wants me to volunteer. It's really the only thing she cares about when it comes to me, and ever since it dawned on her that if I win, we'll be rich, she's been a bit overly excited about it.

"So, this is finalized, right, Gleam?" Mother asks me eagerly.

I groan. "Yes, Mother. I'm volunteering. Will you shut up?"

"Oh, hush. If only your father were here..."

"Don't remind me."

My father died in a mining accident eight years ago. He was rather mean and arrogant. I didn't care for him too much and I've never wanted to grieve or feel anything towards his death. But when people started to tell me I'm "weak" and I "need help," I started feeling for his death. I started feeling angry. Because I am not weak and have never been weak, nor have I ever or will ever need help. It's not in my nature. I'm not even sure it's in my vocabulary. Weaknesses just don't apply to me.

We continue to eat in silence, and that plant really captivates me. A little breeze flutters through the open window next to it and its fake leaves flutter just slightly. I sigh again in boredom and throw my toast across the room and into the trashcan. My mother opens her mouth to scold me, but I mutter a quick "Sorry" before she can ramble on about manners or whatever. Then I get up from my place at the table and march up to my room.

In my room, I start getting ready for the reaping. I quickly brush through my short dirty blonde hair. Then I go over to my closet where there is an outfit outside the door, but it's one Mother picked out, so I don't put it on. Inside, I open my closet and take out the outfit I had ready yesterday because I knew I wasn't going to feel like picking one out this morning. I slip the white skirt, blue tank top, and the blue and purple top off their hooks and dress in them. Then I take out the white high-heeled boots and put them on.

After I have dressed, I go downstairs again and sit in the kitchen table, waiting for Mother. She's showering, for she hadn't thought to do that when she woke up this morning like I had, and now I have to wait for her, because if I leave before she does to get in the crowd early, my goodbyes with her in the Justice Building will just be an agonizing speech. What a lovely thing to think of as my last moment in District One before the Games.

I twiddle my thumbs, whistle, and look outside at the birds. Then I think to take a knife. I hurry to find one and slip it delicately into my pocket.

The moment I hear her shower go off, I yell, "I'm leaving, Mother!" and am out the door before she can protest.

Outside, the air is warm, the sky cloud-free. It's a summer morning, and the birds are chirping lightly. I walk past the nice neighborhood I live in and through the bad part of town. That's the only thing about the reaping that I hate: when I go to the square, I pass through the grimy, bad part of District One where our few crimes come from. You'd figure, us being a Career district, that we'd have more crimes from bloodthirsty, out-of-control Careers, but either they keep their crimes hidden very well, or they manage to hold themselves back. I suspect the former.

Soon I am just outside the training center. Trainees file out of the building. I didn't train this morning because I didn't wake up on time, and my mother didn't lecture me because she woke up late too. I make sure to stay behind the trainees, for I am not eager to catch up with any "old pals," and definitely no current enemies. Friendship isn't something in my everyday life.

They're all eager to get to the reaping, of course—it's a Quell year where _three_ kids get to go into the Games, a Career's dream—so I'm not thinking in frustration, _Please, go any _slower! or something. I'm swept along by others coming from their homes and heading to the reaping. I can see the Justice Building not too far away and pick up my pace, but make sure not to head into the crowd of other Careers.

At the square, I sign in quickly and then dart into the eighteen-year-olds' section. Others crowd around me. I'm glad I'm not claustrophobic, or I'd be spastic at every reaping. I have no desire to feel sympathy for those who have claustrophobia. I've had to face and conquers fears in life, lots of them training-related, so they can as well.

People chatter to their friends and giggle and scream out, "I volunteer!"—as practice, I suppose—before the mayor has even stepped onto the stage, let alone up to the microphone. His speech will be long. Though, to my relief, Toilia, our escort for District One, tends not to ramble much. She likes to get to the point, thank God.

After a long, exasperating wait for the reaping to begin, it finally does. Peacekeepers and camera crews lining the square, Capitol people dotting the edge of the square where large-screen televisions are placed, and an anxious rush settled over the crowd, it finally begins. The mayor steps up and rambles out the speech that I'm sure he memorized long, long ago.

"May I introduce to you—Azalea Darkhart, here to represent the Capitol!" announces the mayor.

Well, that's new. Toilia Marray is gone. Azalea looks so much like Toilia, I didn't know the difference. She's covered head to toe in neon green.

"Hello!" exclaims Azalea. "Hello. Hush, now. We have much to do and so little time." At least she doesn't ramble. "What a magnificent day for a reaping. I shall draw now from our singular bowl."

Her green-tinted hand with long, green fingernails is dipped down into the bowl with both a pink and a blue ribbon. Out pops a name when she withdraws the slip. As the reaping bowl was next to the microphone, she doesn't have to walk anywhere before announcing the name. "Angelica Aarons."

"I volunteer!" I cry, but others are screaming the exact same thing. I push until I am at the front of the crowd and again shout, "I volunteer!"

I step under the velvet ropes and over to the stage, moving quickly so as to beat out the other volunteers. There are ten from each gender, just like always. It's the ten at the top of the training class. I take out the knife I placed in my pocket earlier and hold it out to everyone so no one even _tries_ to take me place, and then up on to the stage. Murmurs spread through the crowd. I approach the microphone when the shouts and murmurs have calmed, and everyone glowers at me for taking the first spot when no one else did. It's rather impressive I did so this year, as I was competing against both genders for this. But in the end, I won.

"My name is Gleam Diode," I announce proudly, but do not add something stupid like, "this year's victor."

"Lovely, lovely. Starting out nicely," says Azalea as she shoves her hand back in the bowl. I sigh, waiting to see my competition. "Glitter Sphereson."

Everyone is volunteering at once, but in the end, a girl with short, dark brown hair that is parted just off to the side, pale skin, and greenish eyes makes it up the stage, announcing quite arrogantly—though who am I to judge?—"I am Adelina Summerfield."

"Mm. Well, beautiful. Let's move on."

So quickly? Why, yes, I think I do like Azalea more than Toilia. Besides, who wants an escort named Toilet—I mean Toilia?

"Daphne… Well, Daphne Summerfield!"

I see Adelina smirk out of the corner of my eye. It's her sister. But I doubt the reaped girl will make it onstage in time. A girl with lighter hair than Adelina, pale skin, and dark brown eyes steps on to the stage with a winning smile and says into the microphone, surprising me and everyone, "I am Daphne Summerfield."

I suppose Daphne and Adelina do look alike.

"I don't suppose you are sisters, Daphne and Adelina?" Azalea asks.

Daphne smiles and Adelina smirks, saying, "That, we are."

"Well, won't this combination be interesting!" roars Azalea. "My! No boys." Adelina flutters her fingers at an angry crowd of males from the eighteens' section with a winning smile and then shakes my hand, turns, and struts slowly to the Justice Building doors. "Well, um, shakes hands, you two…"

Daphne and I shake hands, locking eyes for a moment. We are allies, even if there are two packs this year. I am resourceful to them—I proved _that_ with the knife incident, didn't I?—and they are resourceful to me. Something about the way Adelina walked away without a care in the world, and the way Daphne made it past all the volunteers, tells me that they're valuable. Value is something we Careers must hold to get into a good alliance for the Games this year, I suppose.

We're taken into the Justice Building and into red velvet-lined rooms. I am the last to get a room. I sit there for a long while before finally my mother comes in with an ear-to-ear smile on her face. "Oh, Gleam," she says. "Oh, Gleam, Gleam, Gleam. I am so proud of you!"

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter. "I know."

"You," my mother spills, "my dear, are extraordinary."

"Extraordinary, victor material—blah-blah-blah, blah-blah, blah, blah, blah…" I continue blahing at mother as she continues complementing until she stops and realizes what I am saying. She glares at me, and I smile. "Yes, Mother?"

"Do well," she grumbles, stands up, and promptly walks out.

Just like usual.

**_D1- 17- (Adelina Summerfield)_**

"Dressed yet?" asks my little brother Trev from outside my room.

I open the door for him and he looks my short red dress up and down, ending with my undone hair. He rolls his eyes and wrinkles his nose. Trev is thirteen and has been training for eight years, and yet he still thinks he's better than me, the girl who's older then him, has been training for _twelve_ years, and could definitely beat him up. And who is he to wrinkle his nose up at me when I am attempting to volunteer for my first time this year?

Trev sighs. "Breakfast."

I nod and downstairs I hear mother call up, "Trevor, Adelina, Daphne! Get ready and come have breakfast."

I go downstairs quickly. Trev reaches the floor with a thud, as he jumped from the third stair to the floor. I roll my eyes and hear my twin sister, Daphne, say from behind, "Oh, great—did Trev fall again?"

"No!" he says loudly.

I smile and wait for Daphne to reach the floor before giving her a high-five for that. "Nice one," I say.

"Thanks."

I nod and we head to the kitchen together.

Daphne and I are best friends. Despite the occasional, natural sisterly drama, we get along pretty well, and we're twins. And since we're pretty popular at our school, we have a lot of friends, and therefore few to no best friends. Naturally, we grew together and are really close friends. We did share a room for the first ten years of our life before we moved into a four-bedroom house.

"Are you going to walk with Jeff to the reaping?" I ask, doing well to keep the envy out of my voice. I wish that it was I who had a Jeff Cavanaugh of my own, and not her. Or, better yet, that we both had boyfriends. That would be nice.

Daphne shakes her head. "Nah, I thought I'd walk with you," she says. "Besides, Jeff can't."

"I see," I say, sitting at the kitchen table. "Is it okay that Lydia comes with us?"

Daphne nods. "Yeah."

Lydia Lang is my other best friend. We hang out whenever Daphne is with Jeff.

During breakfast, there is little talk. Mother and Father talk a lot about the reaping, volunteering, precautions we need to take in the Games. This is Justice Building talk, but I don't mind. The more advice I have, the better. And the same goes for Daphne, if she decides to also volunteer this or next year. She hasn't told me if she is going to or not.

Father looks at the clock. "Time to go, girls," he tells us. Then he looks at Trev and says, "Why don't you go with us, pal?"

"But, D—"

Father shakes his head. "No buts, Trevor."

"Dad!" Trev protests loudly.

I stick my tongue out at Trev and slip the shoes I kicked off under the table during breakfast and walk out with Daphne. Outside, Lydia is waiting on the porch. When we walk out, she stands up and smiles, beginning to walk in rhythm with us as we pass by. She greets Daphne kindly and asks where Jeff is.

"At the square," replies Daphne.

"You didn't have to wait outside," I tell Lydia.

"It's nice out," she explains. I nod and look up at the perfect blue, cloudless sky.

We all walk in silence to the square, where, after we sign in, we go to the seventeens' section and wait for the reaping to begin. Everyone is talking at once and I don't understand how anyone can hear each other, so I don't bother to try to speak to my friends. Daphne attempts to call for Jeff when she sees him, but he doesn't hear and instead goes to stand by his friends.

After a deafening minute or so, the mayor finally steps up, recites his speeches, and gets the heck off the stage, after announcing our new escort, Azalea Darkhart, which is a rather ironic name since her clothes are very bright, like Toilia's, our old escort.

She smiles and begins the reaping—the one that will change everything.

**_D1- 17- (Daphne Summerfield)_**

"Angelica Aarons," announces Azalea nonchalantly, because someone will volunteer; that's obvious.

In fact, _everyone_ volunteers.

Well, if twenty people - ten of each gender permitted to volunteer, two of which are Adelina and I - is everyone.

No one stops until some girl comes to the front of the crowd and pulls a knife before darting up to the stage and announcing her name. "My name is Gleam Diode," she says, holding her head high like any volunteer should, especially when announcing their name. It shows some sort of family pride to the district, announcing you're proud you're who you are and that who you are is a winner.

Everyone now hates and loves this girl. She took someone else's chance, but she's also one of the three the whole district will be rooting for. So, really, they _have_ to love her or they're not patriotic towards their district, their home. It's really rather interesting to think of the system like that. Also, if you root for some District Two bozo, who the hell will ever want you to be the volunteer? You'll be sponsor-free.

I have been spacing out, so the next thing I hear is Azalea announcing, "Glitter Sphereson." A prideful girl begins to race up to the stage, head held high, screaming that she volunteers over everyone else. But as she has always been, Adelina is fast. She's agile. She manages to swerve through the crowd as if walking through the streets on an average, no-school-no-training day.

And before anyone knows it, my twin sister is up on the stage, smiling a toothy grin of glee and to win over people. She drops her smile to bite her lip—something she _totally_ is copying from me, since I have _never_ seen her bite her lip and it's rather habit for me—and announces arrogantly, "I am Adelina Summerfield."

I see her glance at me and can see in her eyes a brief flash of triumph that she stole my lip-biting. _It's cute,_ I can practically hear her saying with a toothy smile and cocky eyes. _And it's not yours, sister._ But honestly, if roles were reversed, I might've stolen her lip-biting, too, so I don't blame her and instead roll my eyes. If she could let it, I know friendly joy would spread over her face and she'd laugh. Sisters know these things.

"Mm. Well, beautiful. Let's move on."

Adelina surveys the crowd, guessing who will be chosen, eying the other eighteen people who are allowed to volunteer this year. Sizing up possible competition. Remembering their strategies, scores, ranks, and ages. Mentally charting, ranking, and determining how long they'll last. Or is that me who does that? I am more stategic of the two of us, and she is more "act now, think later."

"Daphne... Well, Daphne Summerfield!"

I don't know if I am exactly shocked at hearing my name, but I do know that since I am a volunteer, I am allowed to go up there even though I was reaped and didn't volunteer. So, as fast as I can, I part from the crowd and dart up front, up the step up to the microphone. I can see shock fill the crowd's eyes as I announce, smiling "I am Daphne Summerfield."

Azalea asks, "I don't suppose you are sisters, Daphne and Adelina?"

I smile. Adelina smirks and says, "That, we are."

"Well, won't this combination be interesting!" roars Azalea. "My! No boys."

I space out and smile at the crowd until I see Adelina strut to the door of the Justice Building.

"Well, um, shake hands, you two..." Azalea says slowly.

I lock eyes with Gleam as we shake hands.

This is it.

This is showtime.

**A/N: And that was chapter one! By the way, for those who care, I will be posting an epilogue for IWNB, this story's prequel, soon. **

**Remember to get in those reserved tributes, guys! **


	2. Chapter 2: Destroy

_****_**A/N: Anyone who has reserved spots: Get them in within two days!**

**CHECK OUT CAPITOLRULES, GUYS! HE'S GOT AN SYOT AND NEEDS TRIBUTES!**

_**D2- 16- (Stonesia "Stone" Zhunder)**_

Have you ever felt that certain rush that makes you want to dive much farther into what gives you this rush and stay there—forever? Have you ever felt like the world may crash down, the sky may turn to flames, to ozone layer may deteriorate in a matter of seconds, and people from an unknown, unseen country far, far away will bomb the land at any moment in time, but as long as this rush is taking over your heart and soul and you are screaming with passion on the inside, it won't matter? Have you ever been overwhelmed with utter excitement and _contentedness?_

If so, I am not sure if you've lived a say in the life of me or not.

Though, I suppose, getting that first streak of color in my hair was pretty sweet.

And when the first dagger left my hand and stuck in the dummy so hard I couldn't pull it out, even when I yanked, I felt totally one with myself and the world—and, admittedly, extremely girly. I'd never even _dare_ squeal out loud, but on the inside, I was jumping up and down and doing the happy dance, screaming with pride and joy, glee running through my veins.

But getting new streaks and stabbing new dummies with old daggers—it's not as appealing anymore. I continue to do these things, but they've lost their luster, their umph, and the thing that makes me giddy and weird.

Un-me, I suppose.

I'm trying to find the way to recreate this for something that will never die out for as long as I live.

Nothing comes. Nothing ever comes.

"…an' li'l' miss space-case Stone over there couldn't do nothin' worth crap 'bout now, Tris'an," I hear Gloria say.

"Least I have a brain, Gloria," I snap back. "You ain't got any grammar!"

Gloria rolls her eyes. "_Ya_ don't neither," she spits. "Ya talk the same's me, bitch."

Gloria, Evelyn, Tristan, Marko, and I are sort of the gang of misfit toys in the district, the ones no one wants to be friends with and everyone's scared of. Most of us, except Evelyn and I, are stupider than anyone else in the whole district, let alone the country. And we're always fighting, arguing, spitting at each other. But when one of us makes a big, bad Career angry, the rest of us back up the person's mistake.

"Only here," I snarl. "See, I can be as sophisticated as ever, using proper language and grammar, and can do two-plus-eight. What does that equal, _Glor'_?"

Gloria walks away angrily. I smirk, knowing she knows that she has been defeated and feeling proud. I turn around and walk back towards my house after she's turned a corner and out of sight. Walking down the large, open alleyway, I laugh, and its loud echoes burst out around me creepily, which makes me laugh more. I can only imagine some "poor, poor" squirt taking a quick shortcut, thinking no one will be in this alley and then getting completely flipped out because of hearing my laughs filling the open area, bouncing around wildly.

I reach my home after short walk. I burst right in, stomp to my room, and slam the door behind me. I lie down on my bed and wait for someone to burst into my room and yell at me for slamming the door, for stomping, for making such a ruckus. I wait for Father to burst in and explode because I am not out training.

He wanted to volunteer, when he was young. But alas, on his last year, he lost hope. The boy at the top of the class was not ill or injured by the time the reaping came. He was in perfectly good health, and therefore able and going to volunteer—who wouldn't? The fame. The fortune. The _getting away from my parents._ And of course, the Games. Mostly the first three, though.

Anyway, the kid at the top of the class was reaped. Because of this, anyone over the age of fifteen is permitted to try to volunteer in his place. This rule is made, in my opinion, to give hope to all non-top trainees so that they still train and the training companies—the one for males, the one for females, and the coed one, which is mainly used as a regular gym—still get their hundreds of dollars from volunteers and wannabes.

My father tried to volunteer after this, but someone else beat him to it. Now he trains me like hell, living his dream through me.

If I found out that his training methods were Grandfather's training, I might just have a slightly changed perspective of my father. But I haven't been told that and I'm not looking to.

Just as I expected, the next thing I know, my parents are bursting in my room, practically melting in fiery anger. Reduced to saying things like "You—" and "Now—" in their anger, unable to form complete sentences, they look at me. My father gives in first and sits down in a chair, still fuming. But it's only because if I'm mad at him, I could stop training, and if I stop training, I can't volunteer. And he wants—no, _needs_—me to volunteer.

But my mother still stands at my doorway, tapping her foot, face contorted in rage. I simply give her a smile, crawl under my covers, and turn as if I am about to go to sleep and it's too bright. Containing laughter, I listen to my mother breathing huffily and can practically feeling her glare burning a hole through my covers and into the back of my head.

"Young lady," she growls. "Sit up this instant, Stonesia Zhunder!"

I do sit up, but it's only so I can correct her face to face. "It's Stone, _Mother_. Stonesia is _not_ my name."

"Your reaping slips say 'Stonesia,' Stonesia, so that is your name," Father says sternly, trying to ease his anger slowly.

"Oh, yeah, my reaping slips!" I exclaim. "What about my birth certificate?"

"Of course I do! It's just…"

"It's just _what?_" I say angrily. I roll my eyes and point to the door. "Close it behind you, would you?"

My mother's nostrils flare as she breathes deeply; her lips are pursed; her eyes are cold and hard. She opens her mouth but says nothing for several minutes before she finally explodes, screaming, "Stonesia Zhunder! You are a disgrace and a little brat, you know it? After the reaping, you are not leaving the house, not even for school, for a week. I am taking that stupid streak _out_ of your hair somehow and I am taking away everything but the bed and the clothes from your room. And if you act out _again_, Stonesia, you are never training again."

I shrug. "Eh." Sitting back, I watch my father oppose.

"Oh, but, Erica—she has to train, honey," Father says calmly.

Mother shakes her head. "No. No, she doesn't."

"But—"

"But buts, Lucius, and none for you either, Stonesia." Mother leaves the room with a breathy sigh and a door-slam.

Father looks at me and smiles a little bit. "You'll train," he says, and exits the room.

I look in my closet for something to wear to the reaping. The first thing I see is a frilly, too-too girly, pink dress on the door with a paper taped to with. In bold, giant, red letters, it says, "WEAR THIS, STONY."

Stony. That's what she called me when I was a little girl.

I purse my lips, not noticing it's exactly the way Mother did only moments before. I disregard the dress and look down at my saggy gray t-shirt, ripped and faded skinny jeans, and, like usual, combat boots. "Good enough," I mutter with a shrug, and march out of my room, into the hall. Throwing down the note I didn't realize I grabbed and clutched tightly, I let out puffy breaths and storm out of the house in a flurry, leaving behind Mother and Father, heading for the reaping.

Along the way, in a window, I see my reflection with the bright purple strip down my dark hair.

_Is it worth it?_

Silence would be here.

_Yes._

…

Once the reaping has begun and people have fallen silent under the words of the mayor, Calla Lambay steps up to the stage, her curly pink wink falling in ringlets, her boots studded with pinkish diamonds, her outfit revealing and also pink. Unlike last year when she was pink, she has normal-colored—but tan—skin, and whiskers. She smiles at the crowd.

"Why, hello, citizens of District Two!" she cries into the microphone, her voice shrill. "We are gathered here today to reap the District Two tributes." Her smile is plastered, it seems, to her face permanently. "Shall we begin?"

She reaches into the bowl sitting delicately right next to her, pink and blue ribbon tied around it. She pulls out a name, opens it, and says, "Aelia Littleton!"

Aelia Littleton. Aelia was reaped! She was first person to volunteer. _Was._

I smile and call out, "I volunteer!" I hurry up to the stage while others do the same. I am smaller than most trying to get up there so I can maneuver better. I'm also fast, determined, and willing to kick the person who gets up there before me right off the stage with a not-so-sweet, devilish smile. But I shove some boy out of the way and run up onto the stage.

"I," I announce quickly, taking a breath, "am Stonesia Zhunder."

"Well," says Calla. She claps. "Give it up for Stonesia!"

"It's _Stone _Zhunder, not Stonesia," I correct her, realizing I said Stonesia.

"But you said…"

"That's because it's my idiotic real name." I give a little smirk. "You'd understand, wouldn't you, Calla Lambay?"

Calla cocks her head, trying to figure out what I meant, but shakes it off. I contain a laugh and instead blandly smile.

"Alright. Now…" She reaches in the bowl again and calls, "Gea Andes."

I know who is going to volunteer. It was announced two days ago. So when Beck The-Idiot-Of-This-World Ferrari steps out from the eighteen-year-old section and shouts, "I'm a volunteer!" I'm not surprised.

He steps up, dark-as-night, messy, long black hair spit back in a slight, out-of-place on this sunny day breeze. His gray eyes stare back at me intensely, his dark skin not even daring to mask a scar from training—I remember that day; he screamed very loud with "anger" and "not at all pain"—and his muscles and his tallness doing him definite justice.

He may be an idiot, and I may want to kill him so hard for it, for surely he'll burden the Career pack, but when you're cute, you're cute. All there is to it.

It suddenly hits me what's going on when Beck brushes past me, obviously meaning to bump into me slightly. I am volunteering. I will soon—most likely—have fame, fortune. Everything. Nothing will ever stop me now.

With this is mind, I imaginarily sit back in a chair and watch the show.

_Bet'cha a thousand dollars, crowd, that this next volunteer is third on the training rankings: Azaleigh Rommell._

And just as I imagined, Azaleigh Rommell, uninterrupted, steps up with a gloriously winning smile and looks straight forward. Not at me, not at Beck, not at Calla, and not at Mayor Duncan. She looks at the victors, as if she's announcing silently to them, right here and now, that she, Azaleigh Rommell, will sit next to them next year.

Oh, hell, no.

We're told to shake hands. I shake Azaleigh's, and then she shakes Beck's. When Beck shakes my hand, I can tell he holds it a little longer and a little tighter than he did for Azaleigh. I glare and whisper, very quietly, "I'll spit on you."

"Try me," he says.

And so I spit on his shoes and walk behind Calla, straight into the Justice Building, smiling triumphantly.

…

My mother pats me on the back.

My father hugs me.

Our last words together are:

"Be safe."

"I'm always safe."

Then I turn away and wait for them to leave.

**_D2- 18- (Beck Ferrari)_**

I stand in the eighteens' group, waiting impatiently for Aelia Littleton to go ahead and volunteer. She's next to me, wringing her hands, hoping she won't get reaped. Her pretty, long blond hair falls in her eyes. I lean over and push it back from her eyes. She looks up at me curiously. Then she smiles, and so do I.

"Everything'll be fine, A.," I say softly. "And, if it makes you feel any better, you're really pre—"

"Aelia Littleton!"

Aelia's mouth drops open at the sound of her name being called by Calla. She looks up at me worriedly, and I shrug, pat her shoulder, and move away. She's useless to me now.

"I am Stonesia Zhunder," says a small girl on the stage.

_Oh, dear,_ I think, _the Careers are _doomed.

Everyone knows of Stonesia Zhunder just because she's the district pest. But, as I've observed, foolish. Easily fooled. I can use her.

I smirk her way, and even though she doesn't notice me, she will.

Oh, yes, she will.

**_D2- 16- (Azaleigh Rommell)_**

I file into my section with a grin and stare at my toes throughout the mayor's speech. As he rambles, I picture myself up on the stage. Not volunteering, but sitting with the victors, waiting for my tributes to volunteer. Waiting to take them to the Capitol and hopefully to see them come back so I can bring home two victors: them, and me.

But first, I must satisfy my father's every want.

I must volunteer.

"And now, may I introduce, Calla Lambay!"

"Why, hello, citizens of District Two!" Calla cries out. "We are gathered here today to reap the District Two tributes. Shall we begin?"

Calla pulls out the reaping slip with slim fingers, gracefully drawing a name from the large glass bowl. All I can think is, _Don't reap me, don't reap me!_ I am third in all the rankings of eligible, older-than-fifteen trainees, and therefore I am to volunteer. Usually it's the top male and the top female, but since any three eligible people can go in, it's the top three of both genders combined.

"Aelia Littleton!" screeches Calla.

Instantly I know who she is. It's the girl who is at the very top of the class. But since she has been reaped, she is not allowed to volunteer. And she's eighteen. I almost feel bad.

Almost.

The next thing I know, a small girl - maybe fourteen, fifteen - is up on the stage saying, "I am Stonesia Zhunder." Her hair is short and choppy, as black as the night, with a bright purple strip bursting through the blackness. Her pointy nose is painted with a dash of freckles, and the rest of her skin is pale, almost ivory. Her eyes, wide-set, are sea green, and she can't be more than maybe five feet. Give or take a little.

"Well," Calla says, clapping. "Give it up for Stonesia!"

"It's _Stone _Zhunder, not Stonesia," Stonesia corrects her.

"But you said…"

"That's because it's my idiotic real name." Stone smirks. "You'd understand, wouldn't you, Calla Lambay?"

_Was that...an insult?_ I wonder. It seems Calla doesn't know either.

"Alright. Now… Gea Andes."

I watch the dunce of a volunteer raise his hand and volunteer. Beck Ferrari. Ick.

Next up is me. _Don't reap me, or I _swear...

"Hestia Meghan!" says Calla.

I smile and listen to the silence. Not even a footstep falls on the gravelly ground. Everyone is waiting on - who? - me.

"I volunteer," I say quietly, but surely and firmly. I raise my voice now. "_I_ volunteer!"

I run up to the stage and announce pridefully, "I am Azaleigh Rommell."

Stone shakes my hand. I quickly get my shake with Beck over and slip back.

...

My family enters first. My mother hugs me with a smile and my father congratulates me with a hand shake and something like a hug. My brother Terry pokes my shoulder.

"You're gonna be alright, right, Aza?" he says.

"Duh, you lug," I tell him, and mess up his hair, brown with blonde tips just like mine. But his bangs aren't dyed red like mine. I suppose that's something Stone and I have in color: dyed hair.

When the leave, my friends, Elizbet Orrin, Ryan Blaskey, and Bree Turley, enter.

Elizbet smiles. "You're so awesome!" she cries, and hugs me.

I smile back. "Thanks."

"You'd better be lucky Beck outdid me, Aza," brags Ryan, "or you'd be going _down!_"

"Suuuure, I would be," I giggle. "I could take you, Ry."

"No, you couldn't," he says, and I roll my eyes.

Bree is still silent.

And before she says anything, they're gone.

She is the only one of them who looks back.

__**A/N: So, D3 will come not so soon, as I don't have all the tributes.**


	3. Chapter 3: Beep

_****_**A/N: Hello, my dears! Sorry for being late on this!**

_**D3- 14- (Calypso Oswald)**_

Shadows cascade around my room as the first hints at sunlight sprinkle across the house. I smile, watching the wood on my floor turn from grayish-brown in the darkness to its regular brownness in the light. But upon further inspection, what I assumed was sunrise spreading across my room, I find out is actually just clouds parting from the midmorning sun, and the sun's rays lazily crawling across my floor. But, nonetheless, it is pretty, despite the lateness and the dark clouds milling around the gray-blue sky.

I sit up, yawning, and then sprawl back across my bed, fatigue spreading through me. I was an imbecile last night and stayed up very late, only to come back from my trance of science in the search of getting a better, more permanent, and much better paying job at my mother and father's workplace: the electronics factory/company/thingumabob. I groan and wish I could curl up, back in bed, close my eyes, and go back to a land of dreamless sleep, resting nicely.

But I know I can't. On most Sundays—as it's the day the factory closes down and all the workers have a nice, relaxing day off, the day where I get my last weekend homework done in the final drops of daylight, the day where I sleep to noon, the day where all the shipments are sent to District Six by mailmen of sorts, where they are then shipped to the Capitol—I can sleep as long as my heart desires and can relax in the noontime sun when I awaken. If I am up by noon, that is.

I allow myself to sit and rest there for a few more seconds, eyes closed, and then bounce up, forcing a tight smile onto my face and making sure I will myself not to jump right back in bed, get under the covers, dose off in a hazy, half-sleep…

No, I can't—not today. I will after the reaping that is in an hour. For I woke up late, at 8:25, and it's now eight-thirty.

For most, this is a perfect time to awaken. For me, it's late.

I like to explore, and make, and strive. And though, since I am considered "odd" and have no friends besides my eleven-year-old sister Astra, I always like to keep myself busy, from seven o'clock a.m. to ten o'clock p.m. Some days, when I am overly tired and haven't given myself a time to settle down and be calm for a little during the day—I read during these times—I even limit myself to nine, because it's all I can manage without collapsing from exhaustion.

Safe to say, when I mean I keep busy, I keep not only busy, but also kind of active. But not too active, for if I burned off every little ounce of food I obtain, I'd be stick-thin and dead by now.

I also like to study. And read. I read anything I can get my hands on, from old things called "Encyclopedias"—which are very interesting, but hard to find; I, in fact, got mine from a bush in the back, somewhat abandoned area of Three on a day where I couldn't help but explore the greenery back there; I also found a "Dictionary," or something, there, once—and old books which can be found in black markets, which are dark, frightening places I'd never step foot in. They can also be found in school libraries, but that is very expensive, and even more expensive to buy.

Let's just say, my father knows a person. Because that's all _I _know.

"Calypso," I hear a voice say softly. "Calypso, may I come in?"

I swallow at the sound of my little sister's voice, as any older, protective sister might. Especially one who will be setting their younger sister off to the world of no-longer-innocent next year. The reaping rips away a little bit of innocence, every year we have to go to it, and I know this from experience, as this is my third reaping. I cannot fathom my baby sister, the little Astra I've watched grow from an annoying six-year-old who wouldn't leave me alone while I still had a few friends, to the lighthearted eight-year-old who bounced around and smiled, until the day when she learned that the Games weren't sick, fake television acts, the day she was finally taught to understand them. I watched her transform after that, and develop more fear than she ever had had, and grew to understand. Grew to understand that she was sheltered and grew to understand her friends weren't playing sick games went they spoke so vividly of the Games as if they were real. Our parents shelter us from those things until they absolutely have to tell us, and that is at age eight.

I've watched her mature until she's this serious, pleasant, kindhearted eleven-year-old who's inching her way into the real world where she'll encounter many downfalls. I can only hope she knows that I, her big sister, her protector, her guide since our parents are constantly working to provide for us, will always be there to catch her in case she spirals downhill and can't stop until she hits rock bottom.

"Yeah," I call back, keeping my voice down just as she did in case Mother and Dad are still asleep.

Astra steps into the room and beams at me as I stand there, in my pajamas, only half-awake.

"How do you get up so early _every single day?_" she asks, her eyes glittering with delight. Astra and I are very close, and she gets really sentimental on reaping day ever since her friend Tabitha's fourteen-year-old-and-would-now-be-eighteen-year-old brother died in the Hunger Games four years ago, and rather tragically; Astra said she wept for days. "It's, like, impossible for me, no matter what."

"The same way you manage to be cooler than your awesome big sister, As." I ruffle her long, curly, messy strawberry-blonde hair and yawn. "Pure luck and a whole lotta magic."

"But magic—"

I mock-frown. "Nah, don't finish that. If there is no magic, then there is no explanation for my lack in pure fame and fortune for just being _me_, and, well, that would just break my little heart, Sister," I muse with a smile, and she sticks out her tongue, rolling her eyes. I shake my head. "Don't stick out your tongue. You know Mother doesn't like that."

"Oh, please," Astra blabs defiantly. "What does _this_"—she sticks out her tongue—"hurt?"

"Everything," I say.

Astra rolls her eyes. "Oh, ha-ha."

"So, what'd you come in here for?"

"Huh? Oh, no reason, really. Can't I just say hi to my sister, Sister?"

"No, you can't." I poke her shoulder. "It's too suspicious, little one."

"I am not little!" Astra blurts out loudly and determinedly, as soon as I say "little one."

"Oh, yes, you are. Now, get outta here."

…

Slowly, one step at a time, wearing a formal sky-blue dress that Mother bought for me, matched with a pair of black flats, I approach the square. Holding Astra's hand and using her youth as an excuse to hold it, even though it is I who truly needs someone to hold onto, I inch closer. Astra's tiny steps allow me to be able to go slower. I would love it is I could dilly-dally forever, but I have to get there, or I am dead anyway, and so is my family.

The reaping is harsh.

"Ow," mutters Astra. I loosen my grip on her hand. "You can go now."

I know she understands that this is scary and awful, but she doesn't understand _the fear_, having never experienced a reaping before. She will next year, and I am mortified for her—who wouldn't be?

"Alright," I say, letting go of her hand. "Okay."

I linger.

"Calypso," she says.

I nod. "Yeah, I better get signed in," I say, and turn to my parents as they come up to escort Astra to the group of watchers. "See ya."

"Smile," commands Mother with a light, airy, breathy voice. "Don't cross your arms. Be ladylike, please, Daughter."

"Yes, Mother," I say, and trudge—hopefully with "elegance"—over to the sign-in booth, where other eligible children are lined up, and Peacekeepers are behind the booth, zapping people's fingers. The line I am in is long; hopefully it will take a moment before it is, dreadfully, my turn. I look at those in line next to me. A little twelve-year-old with a pale, skinny face and a raggedy pink dress, her hair matted, stands near me, shaking furiously. If I didn't know better, if I didn't know she'd jump out of her little shoes and scream with terror, I'd rest a hand on her shoulder and tell her it's alright. Because she looks so _much _like Astra. Because she's so young. Because I feel her pain.

"Next," says the Peacekeeper in charge of my line. I swallow and step forward. "Your finger."

"Oh," I say stupidly, and shove my finger forward.

She zaps it. I clench my teeth, allowing her to put my fingerprint on the paper and wait until she drops my finger. I pull away as she scans my blood, sending the report that Calypso Oswald is, in fact, at the reaping. Who'd be stupid enough _not _to be here? Peacekeepers scour the district for people trying to get away from the reaping, hiding in their homes, as if they could get away with it. But no one does that.

I cross my arms and dab my bloody finger on a cotton ball. Then I throw it away and head to my section, my feet moving so reluctantly that I almost stop and form a ball with each step. With each breath, I hear another's breath, through the microphone, cheery and pleasant and high-pitched, and yet so ominous and terrifying at the same time: Fawna Dolo. Her purplish-tinted skin and bluish highlights give away that she's a Capitolite, and so does her colorful, rainbow clothing. Just the sound of her breath in the microphone scares me.

In a crowd of fourteen-year-olds, I wait for the reaping to begin, my fingers trembling. I am not scared, nor am I fearful. I am _petrified._

"Quiet, now, citizens of District Three," the mayor's deep, crackly voice says. "Let us begin. I will start with reading the Treaty of Treason. 'Rebellion. Treason. Evil. Badness. It's all what started the war that tore us apart—both of them…'"

I stand in the world of others, as helpless as every other person in Three, unable to stop what will happen soon. I swallow a lump in my throat and cough, one of the only noises besides the mayor's voice and the wind whipping around in the entire square. Five or ten minutes later, the mayor concludes with, "'And in penance for our wrongdoings, this pageant shall be forevermore rehashed, and once again known as 'the Hunger Games.'

"Now," the mayor goes on, "I am pleased to introduce to you, our representative from the Capitol—Fawna Dolo."

A clap or two comes from the cameramen from the Capitol surrounding the area.

Fawna steps up to the microphone with a smile, and to my relief, she doesn't breath, but simply says, "Welcome to the One Hundred Fifty-second Annual Hunger Games reaping, District Three. I shall now draw the names."

She sticks her hand in the bowl. My breath comes in short gasps everyone once in a while over the period of what seems like months as I try in a weird and unsuccessful my to hold my breath.

"Rylan Ashmore," Fawna announces.

The boy _right next to me _takes a shaky step, and his quick, almost hyperventilation-like breaths stop altogether for a moment before he regains his composure and pushes through people, muttering, "Pardon me," "Excuse me," "Sorry," "Please let me through," and other things all the way to the front of the eighteen-year-olds' section. It's so quiet that I can hear him all the way up.

_He was _right _next to me, _I think numbly.

He was _right _there.

Now he's not.

Rylan Ashmore, with his brown hair, blue eyes, and his pale, skin-and-bones figure, stood right next to me. The place where he stood was empty. I paid no mind to him. He was _right _there.

He's up on the stage, looking at his feet, shaking his head to questions I'm not aware of that Fawna is asking. And _He was right next to me! _keeps running through my head.

"Okay. Well, now onto the next of three names," says Fawna. She sticks in her hand, drawing out a name. "Forrest Montgomery."

A boy, thankfully from much farther up then Rylan Ashmore was, steps up to the stage, looking around, seeming as though he is a lost little puppy. He mounts the steps and looks at the crowd. He almost seems…confused, maybe? I don't know, but suddenly he smiles, his eyes warm and kind and he looks at his feet, away from the crowd.

"Congratulations," says Fawna.

Forrest does nothing, but he looks back up at everyone gathered in the square.

"Now, on to our next tribute," Fawna continues, drawing the third and last name.

"Calypso Oswald," Fawna declares. "Oh, dear, I hope I said that right…"

Her last words are empty and far away. The world fades and I run out of my skin, miles from here. The eyes looking at me, the few murmurs of "Hurry" from people around me, the betters rumbling from the edge of the square—it's all so distant I barely notice it. It's a faint echo in a dim, shadowy world I stepped into. But then someone shoves me forward. I look back and see that it's no one I know, and I would glare, but I am too scared to do even that.

And then—as if it could get any worse, but it does—I am hyperventilating as I edge up to the stage.

_Huff…huff…huff…_

_No, breathe normal!_ I command myself silently, but it doesn't work.

_Huff…huff…huff…_

With each step, a growing sense of horror washes through me, and my hyperventilation's _huff_s turn into the same short gasps that I breathed when Rylan was reaped as I think of the prospect of going into the Games, and what it actually means when you _go into the Games_, and the fact that I'll be leaving Astra behind when I go into the Games, and I cannot stop thinking, _I'm going into the Games._

There's a saying that works really well with the Games, and I think people relate it to them. _Kill or be killed,_ it says. And it's true. Not only is it unlikely that I survive on my own out there, but it's also highly unlikely that I get one kill, for I'm not strong—I'm small. And I can't kill someone younger than me; I just couldn't. I would feel too unbearably bad. I'd feel bad if I killed anyone!

Eventually, I realize, I have pushed past the eligible people—and the front row of newly-made non-eligible people who are surely jumping up and down with joy on the inside—and I need to go faster. So I do, and then mount the steps and take my place next to Rylan and Forrest. Both of them are off in their own little worlds, Rylan staring at his feet, Forrest struggling to maintain a smile.

"Now, shake hands," says the escort.

Rylan shakes my hand and then Forrest's. Forrest shakes my hand. We turn back to Fawna.

She leads us into the Justice Building. We ride in a cramped, smelly elevator with words scratched all over it. _If you're in here, you're dead…_ _Ha-ha, go die_… _Sherry hearts Darren_… _lozer_… And several profanities.

When the elevator opens, Fawna ushers us out and then dives right back in it. Peacekeepers swarm us and take us to three rooms. Mine comes last, and, after peeking into Rylan's and Forrest's, is honestly the worst. Theirs were filled with plush and red velvet and windows that let the foggy light from outside spill in. Mine has a torn up, white, patched couch; badly-woven wool quilts draped over falling-apart recliners; wooden, moldy chairs for a desk or two; and a center table with a torn, faded cloth folded over it; and everything, including the window which has a wooden board over it, pushing away the sun, is dust-coated. The only light comes from smelly candles scattered here and there.

My first visitor comes in with sad eyes, and her nose scrunches up immediately.

"They say these rooms are supposed to be glorious," she complains. "They could at least give you luxury before the stupid Games!" My mother looks around the disheveled room and shakes her head, but then snaps her eyes over to me. "Oh, pardon my manners! Oh, dear, never complain like this, Calypso; it's just not proper."

I smile weakly. "It is fine, Mother. Where are Astra and Dad?"

"They're coming," she tells me. "They were held up when Astra's little friend Tabitha went crazy because—I don't know—Forrest Montgomery looks like her brother, and she started to cling onto Astra… I'm not really sure what happened."

"Oh, poor girl," I say sympathetically, and though I do feel awful for her, I can't help but also feeling angry. Causing such a scene for everyone to get sad about, when three people—one of them being me—are being sent off, to die. And such selfishness coming from me makes me feel sick, but I can't help it; I want everyone to cry for _me_, not some poor insane girl who lost her brother and thinks she lost him again.

The more I think about it, the worse I feel.

Mother walks over to me and lets a light hand fall over my cheek with a small smile. "Oh, honey, you're beautiful," she says suddenly. "You're so, so beautiful. More so than anyone, Calypso."

"Mom?" I ask, and this weight drops down on me, like a thousand pounds of air suffocating me and beating down on me, crushing me, pushing me in... It hurts, and the world crashes around me with every growing second. I can't help but dread my future.

"Yes, dear?" Mother asks, and I collapse into her arms, letting her encase me in her motherly warmth as I sob into her shoulder. "Oh, Calypso, I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I should've worked harder so you didn't have to take tesserae, and - oh, Calypso, I love you."

"I..." I get out, but then I have to bury my face in her shoulder again so she doesn't see the tears starting to toll down my cheeks again. I breathe in and out until I stop crying and then pull back from my mother, wiping tears out of my eyes. "I love you too."

"Time's up," says a Peacekeeper outside of the room. "Your have more visitors, Miss Oswald."

I nod. "Bye, Mother."

"Goodbye," she says, and doesn't look back to walk out, but instead marches straigh away, her head down.

"I-" I get out when she has gone, before my sister and father have entered the room. "I'm not 'Miss Oswald'... I'm Calypso."

**A/N: Rylan and Forrest's goodbyes will be in D3 train rides. I have caught a horrible case of Writer's Block, so I cannot write them if my life depended on it. -_-**


	4. Chapter 4: Wade

_**A/N: Oh, my. If I hadn't have been so finicky with picking out fonts every five seconds, this would have been delivered to all of you days ago! But, hey, what can you do? The same two fonts repeating themselves, alternating every once in a while, was infuriatingly maddening. I finally settled with Candara, and as the one I'll switch to when Candara gets old is Helvetica! Yay!**_

_**"I love Candara's quotes," says the characters of IWR delightfully. "Now, review, or we'll have to all go die in a hole before the good part, alright? But read the chapter first! Nelly, Jackson, and Vixen would **__**not **__**appreciate you ignoring them."**_

_**I only wish you guys could see the quotes…**_

_**DISTRICT FOUR! ONE-THIRD OF THE WAY TO THE END OF REAPINGS! WOO-HOO!**_

_**D4- 13- (Nelly Carter)**_

Ryan was my best friend. He was the leader of the group, the one who held the mix of us five together—him, Sam, Jordon, Stacy, and me. We were all kind of screwed up in the head somehow—I am simply insane, as people say; he was totally full of himself but so hilarious at times that you'd have to be a little crazy to be _that _funny; Jordon's a troublemaker, and from my experience dealing with troublemakers, I know none of them are all right in the head; Stacy is a total drama queen and always off in her own little gossipy world; and Sam _enjoys _school, and that means he's definitely the most screwed-up one.

But now he's gone. Ryan Melly, my best pal, is gone, killed by some stupid thirteen-year-old with a bow. God, I _hate _her, even if she is dead. I hate her and her family and her district with all my might, and it almost hurts to much to even think about her, because then I see her bow, and I see her arrow, and I see Ryan's blood and his pain and all that bad luck that contributed to them being there and killing Ryan.

I've finally made terms with the fact that it's real, and I still have the nightmares, still feel that gut wrenching pain that shoots through my stomach like it did the first time I hear he was dead, for I was asleep when the Capitol showed the districts his death. I had to hear from blabbermouth Stacy as she sobbed at my doorstep, saying Ryan's name a million times before finally adding "died" onto the sentence—the worst sentence I ever heard: "Ryan died."

More appropriately, _Ryan was killed._

I don't know why I cling to the nightmares. Ryan's screams, his terrified eyes, the raised bow—it's horrifying and wakes me up shivering or screeching out his name softly into the dead of night, waking no one but myself. But I think if they went away, it would hurt ten times more than it already does, and it hurts _a lot _as it is. It's scary too, to think, after disregarding the thought of being sent into the Games for so many years, of being killed by the Capitol, that it could happen to anyone, even sweet, happy, innocent Ryan.

My best friend.

My bud.

Our Ry.

We write letters to him on days when it especially hurts, mix them up, and draw them. We take home the ones we draw, and we're supposed to read them—"It's a therapeutic method used to help grief. Very effective, or so I've heard," Sam told us—when we get home. They're not our words, so we're detached. I never read them. Not once. Because if I let go, if I let go of the pain—it will only hurt so much more.

Today, I think I'll read one.

I go to my dresser, the shabby piece of wood on my bedroom floor. Opening the drawer that the letters are in, I take a deep breath and allow myself to be scared of what I might read, for some reason. I close my eyes and feel for the notebook paper. When I find them, I pull them out with a sigh and close the door. I open my eyes and go to my bed.

_Dear Ryan,_ the letter reads.

_We miss you. We really do. I don't know what else to say. It's really scary. It really scares me how much it has affected Nelly. She's not the same. Help, Ryan, if you can. Please. I need it. Nelly needs it._

_Sincerely, your best, best, best friend for life,_

_Jordon._

I swallow. _…how much it has affected Nelly. She's not the same_, I think, repeating the words in my head as the whirl around up there. _She's not the same. _

Do they all feel this way?

_Dear Ryan, _says another, scrawled in sloppy handwriting, tearstains on the ink, smearing Ryan's name. My face falls short. This is mine. I don't remember at all what I wrote, but there are several pages here.

_I am so sick of this. Of being crazy. Of being stupid. Of being underestimated. I'm sick of being scared, you know, Ryan? I'm sick of Sam having to tell some Peacekeeper, "Oh, I'm so sorry, she's not right, sir." I'm sick of being an idiot. I'm sick of being alone, even when I'm not. I'm scared of it, Ryan, and I don't know what to do, and the nightmares are so bad, Ryan, and sometimes I wake up screaming and sometimes it's me who's killed, and, Ryan, I miss you. You don't understand, Ryan. I miss you._

_But—Ryan. Oh, how this became such a happy, lighthearted group that turned into some pathetic bunch mourning a tragedy. It's ruined us. I don't even like Sam anymore—he's such a jerk, and I now realize how RUDE he is! _

_And last night it was Erik—not you—and it was the Careers—not Miracle from Five. And oh, that hurt. I can't…It was so vivid, you know? Like I was actually there witnessing it! _

_They are staring at me. Right now. I can feel their eyes. I'm—sick—of—it._

_I feel so morbid, and cruel, and selfish, but I wish you were here and not Sam._

_Oh, I miss you…_

It goes on for pages, so I don't read it all, but after a few more paragraphs, I realize just how much pain I was in when he had first just died. I am better now, can cope. I'm back to the old witty, sarcastic Nelly, but a little bit darker and a little sadder. Tears glisten in my eyes, but I hold them back, and jump up, over to my closet, and throw on my reaping clothes: a navy blue shirt and blue jeans.

Because, I mean, why get fancy? I, honestly, don't give a flying spider farm's shit.

I want to own a squirrel-free spider farm when I grow up. No squirrels. No squirrels _ever, ever, ever, _because squirrels are evil, delusional creatures who plot to take over the world. But I know I'm safe, because if squirrels do take over the world, McLovin will rise from the dead and save us all, and then die again, waiting for the next attack of the squirrels to be bestowed upon him.

My friends all tell me that I am "insane in the most awesome of all ways."

And I smile and say, "I want to hug a giant spider one day," and they laugh, even though it's true, but they'll never know, but Ryan did. I don't want to think about that though.

A spider I have banned from being squashed crawls under my door. All other spiders are allowed to be killed, as I have decreed—but I will never do it; I set them free—but this one isn't. It's like my pet spider, but I don't want to cage it, so I let it wander around the house. Its name is George. "George!" I burst out. "I think I might be getting a Susie to keep you company, George. You always seem so lonely."

And I can almost see the little creature nodding.

"Okay!" I resolve, happy, and skip past George and into the dining, successfully keeping all thoughts of Ryan out of my head.

I move quickly to the dining room and sit down next to my sixteen-year-old brother Erik. He's tall and muscular from working on the docks since age ten, but he's a big stuffed spider, nothing more than a pushover and a great brother.

"How's George?" asks Erik conversationally.

I smile.

"He's doing great," I say. "He needs a Susie."

"Well, one day when you get some silly old spider farm…" He ruffles my hair. "What's the point of a spider farm, anyway?"

"To sell people pet spiders!" I say. "It'll definitely be the new trend in the Capitol—having pet spiders!" I giggle, and Erik smiles, rolling his eyes.

"You're an imaginative one, Nelly," he says. He eats more cinnamon toast, a true delicacy. Even with all the money both Dad and Erik bring in, truly delicious things always come at a price. Either that, or my parents just don't like cinnamon toast so they only get it on occasion for Erik and me. "Are you going to a friend's?"

I shrug. "I don't know, why?"

He also shrugs. "I'm just wondering. That's what you did—last year…"

"I know." I turn away and look deeply at my toast, frowning and taking small bites. There is an unacceptable lack of cinnamon on it, so I ask, "Can we switch toast?"

My brother laughs. "Did you spit on yours or something?"

"_No!_" I protest. "I'm not _that _mischievous."

"I doubt that, but sure, whatever." I take his toast and plop mine on his plate. He picks it up and carries it with him, out of the kitchen, into the hall. I watch him open his door, the only door in sight of the kitchen, and step inside his room. He closes the door behind him, and with Mom and Dad wherever, but not right here, I am alone again, eating breakfast, in my shabby clothes, bored. I sigh.

…

I end up at Stacy's house later, when Mom has woken up and told me I could go, after I've taken a nap. I don't like to wake up early unless I have to, but today I did, so I went back to bed after breakfast. Now, sitting on Stacy's bedroom floor as she gossips about something, I sigh, and Stacy looks down at me agitatedly. She hates it when we act like her stories mean nothing, but truly, they never do.

"This story has a point," Stacy hisses rudely.

"Get to it, then," I retort quietly.

"I am trying to!" Stacy growls. She takes a deep breath, calming herself. We've all been a little on-edge lately. "So, _then_, you'll never guess what he said!" She grumbles something and spits out, "He said, 'That Ryan was such an ass. Why were you friends with him? I'm glad he's dead!' Can you believe that?"

Immediately I am furious, and I need to know who said this. It hits me straight in the gut to insult my dead friend who I still grieve for. Less and less, but I still do, because he was always the life of the group when we were down. He was the leader. I flip back hair out of my eyes, stand up, and clench my fists. Through gritted teeth, I ask, "Who is he?"

"Nelly," Stacy says, as through she is talking to a little child. "We can't just—"

"Who, Stace?" I demand.

"Can we do this after the reaping—maybe even tomorrow?"

I sit back down and nod reluctantly, my fists still clenched. My face is hot and I am fuming, looking around my friend's room for a distraction other than punching the wall, which I am sure no one but me would appreciate, and I'd get in serious trouble for that. I can't get in trouble until after I find the kid who trashed Ryan. Who would be such a sleazebag as to say bad things about a freaking dead person? And a young one too!

I stand up. "You want to go to my house? Or Jordon's?"

"Nah. Want to go to Sam's? I promised him I would," she tells me, and I shake my head vigorously. For some reason, I've held a huge grudge on Sam, and I haven't wanted to be anywhere near him in weeks; in fact, I haven't wanted to be near him since Ryan died, but I have been. I've only been successful at staying at him for the past few weeks, and even so, it has been hard, because Stacy and Jordon love hanging with Sam—he's like the new leader.

I suppose that might be why I am so angry with him. Everyone wants to replace Sam, because it hurts so much, and so they have. Even Sam ahs replaced Ryan with himself, but no one seems to notice what they're doing. Only, I do, and it hurts. I find it really selfish that they are doing this without a care in the world, so many steps closer to forgetting Ryan altogether than they should be. Our world seems to revolve around him a lot, sure, but it's becoming less and less that we write letters, less and less that we group up and say all of our favorite memories we've had with him.

"Why?" Stacy asks.

I decide to come clean, because who really cares?

"I'm furious with Sam," I admit.

"Huh?" asks Stacy.

"You have ears; figure it out," I snap, and Stacy frowns.

"What'd I do? No need to snap at me," she says timidly. I am the feistiest and most stubborn in the group; I know how to win fights and I know how to beat my opponents into the ground with one of my "nicer" insults. It's like a gift, and I cherish it greatly, almost as much as I do spiders. But spiders give me company, and my insults push company away. Sometimes I prefer old George to my friends though. He's nice, and he's a great listener. He only crawls away when I finally stop talking, and he never bites me like he does Erik. Though, sometimes, I have to admit, Erik deserves it.

I roll my eyes. "Go on without me if you promised. I'll go to Jordon's."

"Uh…Nelly?"

"_What?_" I say. "Is Jordon going over there too?"

She nods.

I groan. "Whatever, then!"

Stacy and I walk out together, but then we part. She heads to the town where Sam's family has an apartment, and I head over to the beach.

The Victors' Village is by the beach. I look at the house that would've been Ryan's. My house is also very close to the beach. Ryan and I would've almost been neighbors. Across from the Victors' Village, behind the pier, are the boat docks, and we live less than an avenue down from the boat dock. I head up to the porch of what might have been Ryan's house and squint, looking past the swimmers at the pier, the empty boat dock—it's reaping day, so no one except Career trainers have to work—and I can almost see my medium-sized red house that sticks out next to all the white ones. I can almost see the awfully-tended law—which is my chore—and I can almost picture myself waving back at Ryan, who I can almost picture right where I am standing, waving back and laughing.

"Come over!" he'd mouth happily.

"What about the others?" I'd mouth back, but I'd already be telling my brother who would be next to me to tell Mom and Dad that I'm going over to Ryan's, and then I'd be coming.

"We can go get them," he'd mouth, and I'd shrug, and then I'd sprint over, and we'd have a good time, and it'd be dark and we still wouldn't have gotten the others. We'd swim and swim, and then we'd go get the others and we'd all swim at eight o'clock at night, and Erik would watch us. Then we'd all sleep over in Ryan's big tent in the backyard and we'd feast on Capitol food, because he would have that. He would be a victor.

The person who won instead was Ryan's ally. I'm glad that, since it couldn't be Ryan, it was Gray Hager. He was amazing to Ryan, and looked like he grieved Ryan a lot too.

Maybe he still is.

A victor from the next house over steps out of her home. She looks over at me. I recognize her as Eloise Charlotte.

"Oh, get out of the Victors' Village, little girl," she says, sounding calm but firm. She's a mother. I can hear her baby crying inside the house. "It's not smart to come here, especially on reaping day. You don't want a Peacekeeper spotting you here, do you?"

"This is my friend's house," I say without thinking, feeling numb.

The victor looks confused. "That house is empty. It's mighty nice, though."

"No…it's my friend's house, and so it's my house too, since he can't have it."

Eloise opens her mouth and lets out a deep sigh, and then a yawn. "Fine, then. Whatever."

She goes back inside.

…

"It's time," says my brother as I enter the house. "We have to go."

"Mm, I know." I run my fingers through my hair quickly and walk out with my parents and my brother. The square is a pretty good-sized walk from where I live, as it's in the center of the district, and we live on the edge so Erik and Dad can have jobs as fisherman. Plus, Mom practically grew up in the water. There was no way she was going to live anywhere but near it, or so she has said, telling Erik and me the story of how our bonehead father and swimmy, lightheaded mother met.

"Oh, you were never, are not, and will never be lightheaded, Windy," Dad will say, butting in.

"But you were, are, and always will be a bonehead, Jeffery," Mom will say, and then she'll smile wryly, and Erik and I will roll our eyes at the same time Dad does, and Mom and Dad will lock eyes. Erik and I will groan as they lean in towards each other if they're next to one another, or as they walk to each other, and kiss for a moment.

"Ugh!" Erik and I will protest. Laughing, my parents will pull away and will finish the story of how the boneheaded boy was out fishing in a homemade, makeshift fishing boat, and the lightheaded girl was diving around.

"So why didn't you stay over at Stacy's longer?" Mom says. "I would have thought you two were going together."

"I thought so too," I say simply, adding no more information. She doesn't ask anything else about it. "What're we having for supper?"

"A feast, of course," says Dad. He smirks. "It's a surprise."

"_Noooo!_" I groan. "I hate it when either of you try something new! It's always so gross."

"That's why we never tell you," Mom says gently, smiling wryly, which may as well be her trademark smile. And people wonder why I am so sneaky and the runner-up troublemaker in my circle of friends.

We walk in silence for the rest of the way. I keep my head down the whole time, and when we reach the square, my parents go to the audience's section, and Erik and I go to the Peacekeeper's booth where we're to sign in. Erik steps in line before me, and after his turn, he waits for me before slugging over to his age section, and I slug over to mine.

Stacy, Jordon, and Sam find me. They stand by me, and by the way Sam doesn't look at me, I know Stacy has told him that I am angry at him. I knew she would, though, and if I didn't want Sam to know—or, rather, if I _cared _if he knew—I wouldn't have told her. But I don't care, didn't care, and so I told her.

Sam glances over at me.

"Hi," I say curtly.

He nods at me and turns back around. The mayor steps up, blah, blah, blah, nothing I care about.

Then the escort, Esmeralda Azurite, steps up. Her green-_tinted_ skin and emerald green eyes match her green dress embedded with emeralds. Icky.

"Let's begin, eh?" says Esmeralda. She smiles, her eyes giddy as she digs her hand into the scraps of paper. My name is in there, but only twice, thank goodness. Esmeralda rummages through the papers, picks one, and digs it out. She unfolds it and reads the name. Then she clears her throat and calls out, "Vixen Payne!"

A girl emerges from the crowd and mounts the stage. No one steps forward to take her place. She has olive green eyes; long, thick, curly red hair; and a small face with a button nose, light freckles dotting it. She's maybe five and a half feet.

Esmeralda marvels at Vixen Payne. Vixen only smiles back, almost smirking. "Congratulations," she mumbles excitedly, already digging in for the next name. When she draws one out, I wait before Esmeralda Azurite says quickly, "Nelly Carter!"

It's so simple; it's as simple as breathing. Only, now, it seems like the only easy thing in the world, and even breathing is difficult. My breath catches, I forget how to blink, and I almost, momentarily, forget how to hold myself up. But then I remember, just in time. It's still a struggle to maintain my balance even after that. Walking seems like an unimaginable feat.

Fear. It's the simplest thing in the world.

My eyes get wider as I process this. My mouth hangs agape slightly, and my heart pounds; it's the only noise in the square. I take a step, and then feel like my whole body might burst, compose myself, and take many steps, making my way to the stage, slowly but surely. When I am finally up on the stage, I feel like jelly.

Jelly Nelly.

Fear grips me; sadness washes over me. I am so young; how could I be sent off to die? This is the year after Ryan died, too! It's just not fair. I stare out at the crowd, feeling so many things, and yet not sure what I should feel. I feel empty; I feel numb; I feel scared; I feel brave; and I feel sad. I don't know why I feel brave, but the feeling sits in me, not looking to go away anytime soon.

I listen to the deafening silence. No one, not one Career, volunteers, and I don't understand why, but they don't.

"Jackson Brothel," announces Esmeralda. I keep my head down for a long time. I look up just in time to see an older boy, definitely older than both Vixen Payne and I, walk stoically up to the stage, his brown-black hair tousled, dark eyes grim, skin tan, and his neck scarred on the left side. "And there we have it! The tributes from District Four of the One Hundred Fifty-second Annual Hunger Games! Shake hands, all of you…"

We shake hands, and then we're taken into the Justice Building, all on the same team, and yet, never so much more against each other.

**_D4- 17- (Vixen Payne)_**

Daniel, my best friend and neighbor, glares at me, a smirk on his face, shaking his head. Dripping wet, he inches closer to me, his eyebrows raised and eyes mischievous. He tsk-tsks me playfully, and opens his arms wide. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, he is rolling his eyes and another _tsk-tsk-tsk_ escapes him. I hide behind my red hair with a grin and peek out, seeing he's still coming closer, arms open wide.

"You know," says Daniel, "you're such a _great _friend. Come give me a hug, Vix."

"Oh, but, Daniel, that's so cheesy," I say, shaking my finger at him, returning an tsk-tsk to him. "I think you can come up with something more original, right?"

Daniel and I like to play pranks on each other—a lot. Today, I poured a bucket of water over him at the beach, and he was in his reaping clothes, so it made it worse. Now we're on the opposite of the beach, as he chased me with a bucket, but I tricked him into spilling it on his self. That's how we ended up like this. He charges at me and wraps me in a wet, cold hug. Wind whips at us slightly, and I shiver as the wetness from his hug seeps into my clothing. I squirm, but he holds me tightly.

"Mm, warm," he mumbles, laughing.

"Ooh, cold!" I screech, trying to wriggle my way out of his grasp. Sunshine shines down on our laughter and us. The reaping is who-knows-how-long away. So when I finally fling myself away, I take off, darting quickly across the beach. I kick off my shoes, and the feeling of sand under my toes makes me smile. I find a small, unused boat dock for unofficial fisherman and run across it, too. I wait until Daniel is on the dock too before falling backwards into the ocean.

"Vixen!" he shrieks. I stay under water, kicking until I'm far, far underwater, and then I swim over to under the dock. I silently pop above water and take quiet breaths, wading. "Vixen?"

I restrain a giggle.

He jumps in and I swim out, jumping at him. "Aah!" he squeals, and I laugh so hard I fall underwater. I push myself back up and spit out water I accidentally swallowed, coughing a little. Daniel hits my back, and I finally cough up the last bit of water. I start laughing again, clinging onto Daniel. He glares, and I can't tell if it's a real glare or not, but I continue to laugh anyway. "You little—"

"Too much?" I say.

Daniel rolls his eyes, smiling now. "I know you can swim, Vix, but I had to jump—just in case."

"Just in case what?" I ask.

"In case I want to—" he starts to say, grinning.

But my sister, Charlotte, says, "Ew!" She startles me and I jump out of Daniel's arms, and into the water, but once it registers that it was my sister, I swim back up.

"It's not like that and you know it, Char," I say huffily, and glare at my fourteen-year-old sister as she smirks. Because it might have been. What was he going to say? _In case I want to—_ To what? Kiss me? I will never know, because it's not like I can just _ask_ him what he meant. I have to let it go.

"Well, it's almost time for the reaping," says Charlotte.

"Oh, shit," Daniel mutters, and we swim out of the lake together, hurriedly rushing home together with Charlotte. We depart after a quick "See you" when we get to our houses. He goes right; I go left.

Charlotte and I bounce inside. I run to my room, undress, redress in a strapless light green dress that ends just above my knees, comb through my matted, wet red hair, and sprint out of my room. "I'm ready," I announce, and see my family is too.

Landon, my twelve-year-old little brother, smiles. "You were with _Daniel!_" he taunts. "Charlotte told me!"

I glare daggers at Charlotte, as if I am actually throwing them. That's one of the weapons that I train with the most in the training center: throwing knives. I also use a trident, which is my main weapon. But you can't glare tridents, or I definitely would. Charlotte knows I don't like when she informs Landon of when I am with Daniel, because he gets crazy, and every day I blush more and more when Landon teases me, because I really like Daniel. I like him more every day. He makes me laugh until I cry, and we are stupid together, and he is amazing—and gorgeous, may I say, with his blue eyes and feathery brown hair.

"Now, Landon," says my mother, who makes fishing nets. "You know not to tease your sister." She winks at me, for she likes Daniel. "Oh, now, Vixen, he is just great; why don't you two ever get over yourselves and start dating?" she'll ask playfully every once in a while when I am telling her what Daniel and I did sometime, whether it was sneaking over to Dad's boat—for he is a fisherman—and pulling a prank on him, or just talking for hours.

Or coming _this close _to kissing, thank you very much, Charlotte. I can't believe she interrupted! What if he was really going to kiss me? Charlotte might have ruined it for me forever.

We head out to the square. Charlotte, Landon, and I sign in, and then exit to our age sections. I find Daniel and stand next to him. He pulls a string of my hair. I shriek quietly and bat his hand away. "Wet," he mumbles.

"You are so rude!" I protest, giggling.

He smiles. "Am I?" His eyes narrowed, he moves his face inches from mine, moving his smile to form a smirk, and I smirk back, crossing my arms over my chest. "You little fish."

I laugh and pretend that that's what makes my face go red.

**_D4- 17- (Jackson Brothel)_**

****I close my eyes as a flashback flits through my head. My grandma, collapsed… The Peacekeeper, angry… The staring, unhelping workers… And little ten-year-old me. I had come to walk Grandma home, because she had been sick and I knew she might need assistance after a full day's work. She collapsed , right there in the middle of the big, dark, scary cannery, before finishing her last round of canning the Peacekeeper had ordered her to do.

"Grandma!" I remember shouting.

The Peacekeeper screamed at her, telling her useless ass to get up and finish, but Grandma just moaned. Her eyes fluttered, and she squirmed. I knew she was trying to get up. But the Peacekeeper, eyes dark, had bent down and slapped her anyway. I began crying vigorously, wailing and telling the evil man to stop—that she was sick and if I got her home, she'd be as good as new by next week.

But then he beat her. His fists her like rain, coming so quickly you cannot merely stop it. I sobbed harder, my shoulders racking as I stood, hunched over, trying to catch a breath through all the sobbing. I remember noticing how her chest stopped heaving, how the blood flowing from her nose wasn't the awful but adjustable crimson red, and instead a sticky, clumpy, dark black. I remember her face bruised and black and blue, purple and green, her unbeaten flesh a sickly pale white.

I remember seeing her eyes roll back in her head.

"Grandma!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. Anger, sadness, confusion, terror, and helplessness shot at me, and I felt so awful, because I hadn't even thought of stopping him. Maybe then he would have killed me, and Grandma could have hobbled away, alive. But that's such a silly, childish thought, isn't it?

And then, two years later, my brother Marcus was reaped. He was fourteen.

I clung to him, refusing to leave the Justice Building without my brother. The Peacekeepers drug me out, and one cut me, telling me it was to be a reminder to never disobey like such a nuisance again. And then sickening, gleeful, almost kind look in his eyes still haunts my nightmares to this day, just like the void-like eyes that my grandma's killer had do.

I can't let anyone suffer through such pains again.

"Jackson Brothel!" calls the escort, now, here.

Not even me.

**A/N: I am ashamed of Jackson's POV. In his next POV, there will be a real flashback of the goodbyes, and a more in depth view of his personality, history, etc. Forgive me, darlings? **


	5. Chapter 5: Light

**_D5- 18- (Anya Saitov)_**

I listen to the other girls' breaths. Though the room's lights are off, brightness shoots around. My open window lets in breathable, fresh air. I am glad my sleeping arrangements are next to a window. For some reason, it feels safer and a lot more bearable than the rest of the orphanage, but I am sheepish to admit this, because it shows that there is weakness in me, and I hate that. I am cold and reserved, and that is all people need to know, think, or see out of me.

I stand up at the nick of 7:59, yawn, and stretch before anyone has woken up. Then, as the big grandfather clock's hand moves to the twelve, signaling that it's eight since the little hand is on the eight, a chime sounds and a digital clock in the middle of the room goes off loudly. The girl closest to it turns the alarm off as everyone begins to groan and get up. When it's 8:01, the grandfather clock stops chiming. Its quiet _dong_s are consistent, regular, hourly sounds that the members of the Community Home have gotten used to, and we can sleep right through it.

My own personal brownnoser, bootlicker, parasite—there are many words for this girl—wakes up. Perhaps adulator is a better word to describe Claretta Hawley, as she can be annoying, but Claretta is also, at times, company. She doesn't speak much, she's actually rather absentminded, but even though I know it's weak and idiotic of me to feel the need for company, even occasionally, she will always sit there, and she will always let something I say go in one ear and out the other if I want her to. And if I felt the need to confide in her, which I don't think I ever will, and I told her not to tell, told her to forget, she would. She would for me. I think she considers me a friend.

I consider her an adulator.

"Up and at 'em, girlies," says the headmistress of the orphanage part of the Community Home as she comes in. (As if anyone wouldn't be awake; it's an automatic demerit for not being up when the mistress—or, in the boys' case, master—checks, and the punishments for certain numbers of demerits can be grueling, awful work.) The other part of the Home is the senior center. Because, you know, people thought there would be over twenty seniors to occupy this place when it was built, but what with our corrupted government, that's not going to happen. "Get dressed in your uniforms and head down to breakfast."

"What's for breakfast?" Sara Creighton asks, before yawning and popping her knuckles.

"Scrambled eggs and a strip of bacon per person," says Headmistress Tyler. "Headmaster Tyler had some of his eighteen-year-olds work a little later to even get enough chocolate milk for everyone in the Home, too."

You see, the Community Home is poor. After all, it is one small community-ran home, feeding and sheltering so many people. That is why people dread becoming orphans. You know, other than losing everyone they've so idiotically depended on for their whole lives.

Headmistress Tyler leaves us to get dressed. I sift through my dresser drawer for a clean uniform. On nights when I am very absorbed in planning the future—for I have plans; plans to escape and live a life outside of the Home—I don't bother walking all the way to the bathroom in the dead of night, risking someone in charge seeing me still in my uniforms, looking like I haven't slept a wink, with a pencil and a torn notepad in my arms.

I will _not_ risk someone finding my plans.

The girls head to the dressing rooms located near the bathrooms just down the hall. Those who didn't get their uniforms out in time to go on the first round sit on their bed and chitchat idly, worrying about today or complaining that we'll get extraordinary food compared to usual, and then tomorrow we'll be back to the usual sludge. I can't help but feel this girl was once rich.

Claretta and I sit, together, on our own beds.

"I'm kind of scared," says Claretta suddenly.

I look at her. "Don't be," I snap. "It's useless to worry over something we can't think about yet."

She pauses. "So _you_ haven't even begun to plan yet," she asks, "about if you get reaped?"

"Why waste my time?" I retort. "I have much more important things to plan."

"Like what?" Claretta asks excitably, conversationally, upbeat.

I roll my eyes and glare, and Claretta bows her head as though she has committed the worst crime in all of history and is so horribly ashamed of it that she just might collapse over and die. I repeat my previous motions when she looks back up, and instead of looking down at her folded hands in her lap, she turns to see if anyone has come back from the dressing rooms.

Macy Telemann enters the room, and Claretta stands up. She looks down at me for approval to go before me, and I shrug. When she's gone, I shake my head at her insecurities and the fact that she usually thinks she has to clear everything she does up with me before she does it. Moments later another girl returns, so I stand up and head out of the room, down the hall, and into the dressing rooms, pulling the silly Community Home uniform along with me.

In the dressing rooms, I quickly undress and dress. Then I go across the hallway to the bathroom and search through all the girls' toothbrushes until I've found my, labeled "Anya Saitov." It bothers me that any jerk who I simply rub the wrong way could come along and use my toothbrush, and that, honestly, would be disgusting. But I must brush my teeth, so I do, quickly, and use the restroom. Then I wash my hands and creep back to the girls' room. Someone takes my place and stalks to the dressing rooms.

I sigh and sit on my bed again, waiting for everyone to get done so we can go eat breakfast. Sometimes when the girls are late to the dining hall, someone will have already sat down with my friend, Hawken Kelley. I tell Hawken nearly everything—that I have escape plans, what I feel about others, how I critique just about stinking everything in the world, and I know this, but I do it anyway, because people just have too many flaws for me to keep quiet.

But there are two things I will never tell anyone: what my escape plans are, and the details of my parents' death.

It's simple, really. They died when I was seven in an accident at the nuke plant they worked at which released radioactive toxins. There were no survivors.

When the last of girls trickle back in, we all head down to the cafeteria, where I get in line for breakfast towards the front and then slide into the two-person table Hawken's chosen. His chocolate milk is nearly gone, but other than that, he hasn't eaten a thing yet. I, thirsty, take a sip of my milk and look up at him, knowing it is not reaping jitters that have him on-edge. Or, I dearly hope not, at least.

"Hey," he says quietly. The little corner of the cafeteria we're usually found sitting in at meals accumulates no other children, as they all gather in groups at the centermost, biggest tables, chatting and giggling amongst friends and pals. "How're you doing?"

I shrug. "Why?"

"No reason," Hawken says coldly. "Can't I just ask?"

"You never ask," I snap back. "So can't I just wonder why you would now?"

He shakes his head. "How _are_ you doing?"

I roll my eyes. "Fine."

"How's the sycophant?" Hawken asks.

"She's fine. Just as clingy and Claretty as always," I tell Hawken, and he nods.

He bends over his plate slightly and eats all of his food, savoring nothing. I roll my eyes again at his typical maleness. Then I begin eating my food and savor it, for I know that from tonight on, we won't have as much food. The quality of the food I don't mind. They could feed me leftovers from a pig's trough, and if it was all they could get me, I'd eat it and savor it, trying to hold it down. But, nonetheless, I would eat it and wouldn't complain. But I sincerely wish that they could feed us more than they do, because the starved stay starving, and the well-off complain too much because they are grouchy with hunger. And the people like I used to be - not well-off, but not dirt-poor - stay exactly the same: used to it and will _not _complain, but always living their life, dreaming of more.

"Today's our last year," says Hawken after he wipes his mouth off after drinking chocolate milk.

"No, remember?" I say. "It's _your_ last year. The girls have to stay until they're nineteen because it's 'harder for us to get a job.'" I groan, thinking of the headmaster and mistress's ignorance. But it doesn't matter, because I'll be escaping rather soon if all goes well.

Hawken looks at me, confused. I wave it off and sip at my milk, and then burst out, "Why is everyone so concerned with the reaping this year, all of the sudden?"

Hawken stares at me, and then finishes his chocolate milk without answering. He gets up and heads to the trashcans and throws away his Styrofoam cup and hands his tray to the cooks. Then he comes back over to me. He doesn't sit down, but he does tell me, "Figure it out." Then he proceeds to sit by some of his guy friends and leaves me at the table, without even Claretta.

Oh, yes, I am leaving this place ASAP.

…

When we are dismissed and told we can leave the premises if over the age of thirteen, I immediately take my escape plans from under my pillow and dart out, through my window, and run as fast as I can. To nowhere, really. I am just trying to find a quiet, Hawken-free, Claretta-free, orphanage-free, outdoor place where I can sit without the threat of someone overseeing my plans. A _quiet_ place, too. But I am not aiming for anywhere, and instead just running, looking for this imaginary place.

I find it near the ruins. I don't even realize that that is where I am until I look down at my notepad and see the words, scrawled along the paper:

I THINK I SHALL LIVE IN MY OLD HOME.

It's weakness; it's the weakness that crawls through my and zips into my brain, overriding any sense of barrier to keep away the grief that I so long ago intelligently tucked away for a lifetime of rest, and awakened instead this strong, able, smart girl who can read people and who people can't read. Though, at breakfast, anyone who was looking, I'm sure, could see the anger drawn all over my face, etched in with permanent marker.

I jump up and dash away from the ruins of the nuke plant that killed my parents long, long ago, and run so, so far. I have never been to the other side of the district, past the town and the poor homes and the Community Home and the school. I have never seen the rich people's homes and the Victors' Village and the side of the district that was completely free of factories, and instead had shops dotting the roads here and there. I don't plan to go there, but I run in that direction anyway, away from the burnt, damaged sight.

After gasoline leaked - and, obviously, radioactive toxins - the place blew up. But that was days later, and the workers had already died, and as had the apothecaries who helped them. For a while there, everyone worried earnestly that that was it: it was the beginning of a new plague, an epidemic sent from the heavens, set on destroying our awful world, bent on killing off all of humankind. Life as those foolish citizens believed was over, so they went wild. Now they are in jail for committing "heinous" crimes such as rebellion, treason, and several other things. But they thought they only had so long to live, so why not go mad? If there was scientific proof to the world ending tomorrow, I'd do as I wished, too, punching Peacekeepers and going to the president's mansion to have a little talk with him. But I'd be crazy; the world would be ending! So what could they do? Kill me? Oh, great punishment.

I find myself sitting on a bench in town, looking across the street at the town shoemaker, where, in the window, there is a sign saying, "Help wanted." I stare at it for a little longer before getting up and bursting through the front door. If I am to run off, I have to have a job that pays a little better than factory work like I would start next year. Because, according to our sexist caretakers, we shouldn't work like that until we're nineteen. Because we're females. We're delicate. We're fragile. It's such bullshit, a grudge I'll never let go.

I step inside the small shop and the man at the counter - red hair, bearded, gray eyes; he's very cleanly and orderly - looks at me sadly. "Shouldn't you be getting ready?" he asks.

I point to my outfit. "Required uniform. Anyway, you're looking for help?"

He smiles. "Oh, yes. What experience do you have?"

"What would I be doing?" I ask.

He laughs. "So no experience," he says. He shrugs, gesturing to around his shop. I notice that it also has a small portion that is a grocery store. "Well, it's alright. You'd be sweeping, cleaning up, stocking shelves. Beginner's work, but you know, it pays."

"Yeah." I look around again. "How much, exactly? Enough to...house and feed a family of one?"

"Ah," says the perky man, and for the first time I notice just how giddy and happy he seems. I hold back the urge to roll my eyes and groan, telling myself this is only temporary until I can get myself a better-paying job, preferably one no Community Home person would think to look for me at. "I can swing that," the man tells me. he holds out his hand, makes his way out from behind the counter, and stand before me. "I'm Mr. Dager, your new boss, miss...?"

"Anya," I say. I know I can't be snappy with this man, but it's hard not to. "I can work on any day from four to six."

"It's a deal." We shake hands.

...

Back at the Home, I don't see Hawken. I don't want to. He has angered me like few others have before, and he's not supposed to. He's my _friend._

Claretta and I wait impatiently for the Home to be dismissed for the short walk to the square. When it finally comes time, I sigh a and stand up. Claretta and I walk together the whole way, silent, as everyone else is. But together, Claretta and I are usually silent, and everyone else is just stupidly scared. This fact unnerves me, which is why I actively resent it a lot around reaping days.

At the square, we all sign in. People stare at us, this ginormous group of orphans bundled in an airtight, solid group. Truthfully, we all may be polar opposites and desperately hate one another, but we understand. Even the most sadistic and uncaring among us - because, believe it or not, there are worse than me - felt anguish and grieved at first. No matter how short our grief time was, we all felt it at one time or another.

"Next," says the Peacekeeper. I get signed in, and then I drag myself over to my section, making sure to avoid Hawken. It's easy, since there are so many people piled into the section all at once. Few even murmur around me as they stand, stiff as boards, awaiting the fate of three people, wondering who they'll see leave the district today with death hanging over them, waiting to drape around them violently.

Matallia Gleam smiles at the crowd behind the mayor as he speaks. Once he's done, she steps up with a glittery smile and waves. She goes through a yearly routine, speaking about how happy she is to be here, complementing the victors and _especially _our only victor who has volunteered to mentor, Scotty Nelson. Scotty graciously smiles and then looks down at her lap self-consciously. Matallia claps and slips her hand in the bowl.

And so it begins, everyone in the square must be thinking. But I am thinking, _What did Hawken even mean by that? It was so rude!_

"Tenne Bradhe," says the escort.

A very, very tall boy with pale skin and dark hair but with an average build steps up to the stage. When Matallia asks him if he has anything to say, he says in a very gruff, deep, dark voice, "No." Shivers creep down my spine at the sound of his voice. The boy - Tenne - shrugs, and so does Matallia. She smiles, shakes his hand, and I notice that Scotty Nelson is looking hopeful behind him. This boy has potential, and she knows it.

Matallia reaches in the glass reaping bowl for another name. "Allegra Ride," she continues gleefully. A small, short girl emerges slowly from the back of the crowd. By the time she has finally come out of the crowd to a point where I can see her, I am bored and wishing she would get up to the stage already. The girl is freckled, pale, and her eyes are an alarmingly striking green, but not a Capitol color. It's an average green; it just pops against her pale skin and curly red, red hair.

When the little girl steps on the stage, Matallia asks what she asked Tenne. "Would you like to say anything?"

The girl's mouth opens, but only a squeak of a word comes out. But it's obvious her small voice says, "No." Her face goes beet red, and then blanches when she realizes she's gone beet red.

I am not sympathetic towards her at all.

Matallia bends down slightly to take the name out of the bowl, closing her eyes so it doesn't appear as though she is cheating. When she pulls the name out, she opens it and speaks into the microphone. "Anya Saitov," she says.

I do not gasp, or cry, or shake or shiver. I do not try to believe so hard that it's someone else that it comes true. No, I stay calm, and if you hadn't already figured this out, I start to make a plan. I make a plan on how to act during chariot rides, interviews, training, _the Games. _I make a plan on what to say, do, and how to do it in certain occasions. But, of course, being in the section closest to the stage, I only make it so far before I have to quit and step up to the stage.

Matallia asks me the question she's asked both of my district partners, and then when I shrug calmly, indifferently, she shrugs politely as well and claps for us. A few others join in, but like usual, it is nearly silent.

I begin to wonder on what stroke of luck it was, that this must have taken, to take a turn towards what Hawken wants. I try not to glare when I realize this. I try to continue to keep a straight, indifferent, uncaring face, but it's harder as the anger boils up in me.

"Shake hands," Matallia says after a minute when we haven't.

Tenne shakes Allegra's with certainty and care, his strong eyes melting into hers. Immediately I know a weakness of his: the girl. This is good. Then he turns to me, stony eyes back, and I think he just might narrow his eyes a little at me. I stay blank as I shake his hand firmly. Then I shake the girl's, trying to be gentler even though she is my opponent, but still shaking her a little too hard. Her tiny arm jolts her and she stumbles. I grasp is the only thing keeping her from falling.

"Oh, thank you," she mutters.

I shrug.

Matallia escorts into the Justice Building. The lobby is filled with so many bright lights and elevators and Peacekeepers that I don't get a good view of the room, and before I know it, we're shooting upwards, and then I'm being shoved out into a very nice room, and the Peacekeepers are closing the doors...and then I am waiting. For one person. One small, always loyal, always there person. I am waiting for Claretta Hawley.

She doesn't make it for a really long time, as I figured she wouldn't. But the Peacekeepers do inform me, "You have a visitor, Miss Saitov."

They bring Claretta in. She sits down next to me on the large, plush and red velvet or _whatever_ red couch and we stare at our shoes and reminisce, without noise, of our years with beds next to each other, the sycophant and the girl the sycophant is a sycophant to.

Eventually, she has to leave, and I am surprised to hear that I have another visitor after that. I know who it is, but I refuse to believe it until I see him.

Hawken walks in and tosses me a small, silver object. I catch it and see the tiny little emerald that is the giveaway. It's my mother's old ring. Really, it's the only sentimentality I have. I don't know if sentimentality is a good thing for a token, but I think that this ring is utterly perfect to be my token. I like the ring, even if Hawken had to give it to me from my dresser drawer. It's nice.

And even though I am still fuming, I know I have to tell him one more thing.

"Give the plans to anyone," I tell him. "Anyone worthy girl who you think can make it. And...there's one more thing. Tell them to go to the shoemaker's and tell them to say I sent them."

"Why not work in the factory?" asks Hawken.

"It's too obvious. Someone would look for a runaway there," I explain, and Hawken rolls his eyes.

"Goodbye, Anya," he says, and begins to leave the room. He looks back, and all I do is raise my eyebrows, cross my arms, and wave slightly. So he leaves.

I smirk. "Not for good."

**_D5- 18- (Tenne Bradhe)_**

I was young when I was abandoned. I was a baby, in fact. Claira Bradhe found me lying in a dumpster. She pulled me out and raised me as her own son, and to me she's always been my mother - more of a mother than whoever my birthmother is will ever be.

Claira was named after the word "clairvoyance." Her predecessors and ancestors and all the -ors she could dream of have always been fortunetellers. When she found me, she knew I was cursed for a dark, unlucky future. So, she named me Tenne after the Latin word "tenebrae." To to people unharmed by my evil curse, my mother has kept me from befriending anyone ever, and home-schools me. Despite all of this, she still loves me and I love her. I even get a lot of tesserae to keep her safe and fed.

"Tenne," says Claira. "You are spacing out."

"Sorry," I apologize. "It's just..."

"I know, I know, Tenne." She shakes her head. "They'll only be befooled, you know. Your curse will root up inside them and rid you of it, giving way to the lesser of the two evils and setting you free, my son, and then you shall be able to come home."

It's cold in the Justice Building. Cold like the young president's heart. Cold like my district partner Anya's eyes, and her soul and spirit, as Claira has complained vividly since she entered the room.

"I will," I whisper. "Mom, I promise."

She smiles. "I shall be waiting."

I get an idea. "Read me," I say excitedly. "See - see! - what'll happen to me."

She shakes her head. "I can't bear to. Not...not... There is a possibility..."

I know immediately from the way she is speaking. "You already have."

"I already have."


	6. Chapter 6: Train

**__A/N: DO NOT STEREOTYPE US, roared the District Six citizens. You have angered them.  
**

**_D6- 17- (Cade Allens)_**

My brother Alex and I never really got over the loss of my twin, Bryce. Nor did we ever truly stop grieving for our parents' death. The public mourning vanished. But four years later, I still see my father and mother going ablaze in the fire that killed them at their workplace, which was the business I work in now: making things for transportation vehicles in a factory. I can still see my sister being tortured three years ago in the Games by the District One female.

I _hate _District One. When I go into the Games next year, I will kill her. I will kill her so hard.

After my sister died, I started to understand the true cruelty of the Games, and that I needed revenge. What else do I really have to live for anyway? It's worth the risk, going into the Games. I secretly train a little bit, but not like a Career would; only a little here, some there, throwing a knife one day, stabbing a cutout the next, or even tying knots and making fires. Subtle things my brother doesn't notice or won't see because he's at work.

And hell, if he catches me, he thinks I'm suicidal anyway. He'll never know.

The only person who does is my girlfriend and best friend, Lissa Kate.

Lissa and I sit here now, together, fingers entwined. She smiles at me and closes her eyes. We have just recently become more than friends. This is our sixth date, and at such an odd time, but we wanted to see each other so much on this dreadful day. We just couldn't stay away. I squeeze her hand lightly and quickly, and she opens her eyes again.

"Cade," Lissa whispers.

"Yes, Lis?" I ask softly, smiling.

Her delicate, frail, whitish face looks up at me carefully. Her lips, red as blood, part with a large sigh, and her eyes bore into mine, their perfect aqua blueness seeping into my soul and overtaking me. Her curly black hair frames her face delicately, and she looks so fragile and breakable that I can't help but wrapping my arm around her shoulder to keep her safe from harm.

"I'm scared," she tells me quietly, choosing her words precisely.

"I know, baby," I say. "I know." I hug her tighter and bury my face in her dark hair.

She holds me, too, and we are content, together. We are one, and that's all the matters for now.

But later, when we have to part and she has to go home, it hits me hard. I grip her hand and she smiles, telling me it's time to go. She'll find me at the reaping. I nod, and she leaves, closing the door soundlessly behind her. As soon as she does, Alex comes home from God-knows where, obviously a little drunk or a little hungover.

Alex points at the door. "Lissa was here?" he asks. Hungover. His words are not slurred and his voice sounds normal except a hint more gravelly.

"Yeah," I say.

"Date?"

"Yeah."

"Ooh-la-la, little brother," Alex says jokingly, but I blush anyway, and sigh, too. "You two are becoming a little serious, aren't you?"

"Is that a bad thing?" I question him.

"No, no, no," he reassures me. "Of course not." He pauses. "It's..." He trails off, sighs, and shakes his head. "It's very ooh-la-la of you."

"Uh, thanks?"

Alex nods and starts heading towards his room. "You had better go get ready."

"Wait, Alex," I say, and he stops and turns around rigidly. "What-"

"Don't ever," he mutters, turns back around, and walks to his room, fast. He closes his door shut behind him loudly, nearly slamming it. I go to my room too, and when I get in there, I collapse on my bed, a headache arising. I stare at the white, leaky roof that Alex and I have yet to patch. We keep saying we will really soon, but you know how that goes.

I decide to get up and get dressed. I pick out my best dress pants, dress shirt, and dress shoes and take off my casual wear. I slip into my reaping clothes and wander out to the living room. I turn on the old television set that we have the antenna just right so it'll work and see that District Four reapings are just ending. They play the reapings live, and they each last half an hour, so next up is District Five's footage, and in about fifteen minutes, probably when they've just drawn the first tribute, Alex and I will have to go to our reaping. _My _reaping.

The mayor of District Five begins his speech, which the cameramen capture thoroughly and the Capitol broadcasts happily.

Eventually, the escort begins to draw names.

"Tenne Bradhe!" says District Five's escort.

Alex comes up behind me. "Time to go, Cade."

"I know, I know," I say gruffly, and stand up, walking out the door in front of him. I don't need anyone to escort me there anymore.

On the way to the reaping, Alex trudges and I walk fast until I have distanced myself from him and his drunken wreck, just waiting to turn this whole place into mayhem. It's just a matter of time.

At the square, I wait in line for it to be my turn to be signed in. I watch Lissa in our age section from afar, smiling with each flip of her hair, each nervous crossing and uncrossing of her arms. She even looks around once, but she doesn't notice me, in the back of the very long line waiting to be signed it. With all my admiration pointed at her and not balled away and replaced by focus, the other idiots in the back of the line with me and I don't notice that the other line is empty. I slip into it easily.

"Your finger," says the Peacekeeper, even though I am already shoving it out there for him.

He pricks it delicately and smudges the blood onto the paper. The blood-lust in his eyes shows me that he wants to do so much more to us all than just simply pricking our fingers a little. Most of us hardly even notice it anymore.

I stand behind Lissa and tap her shoulder. She turns around so quickly that her hair hits my face. When she sees me, she smiles happily, and grasps my hand, holding it like a lifeline. Her lips purse as the last victor steps up to the stage, and we know that the reaping will begin very shortly. He's always later, coming on the nick of time. He is our oldest living victor, from the first Games after the Capitol rebelled against the rebels long ago and fought back "what was rightfully theirs."

The mayor steps up to his place on the stage and does a quick mike check, and then we're on; all of District Six is being broadcasted live on television. Maybe they even got a fast picture of Lissa and I. Maybe they zoomed in on our hands held together and are showing the Capitol beautiful love even outside the Games. Maybe I should backhand their ugly little painted faces with my free hand...

"Cade," squeaks Lissa. "Too hard."

"Oh." I loosen my grip on her hand and try to smile forcefully, but I'm pretty sure it just looks like a grimace or just kind of creepy.

My heart pumps double-time as I wait for the name to be drawn. I don't have to worry about my brother anymore, but I still have to worry about myself and about Lissa. We are both eligible, and we both take tesserae for our less-than-rich families. She takes a considerable amount more than me, despite my strong protest, due to her family being a large one. I only have to get a bucket load for Alex and I, but even then it's less than hers.

"Now, we shall draw names, and our new escort, Vivid O'Ryan will be doing so," says the mayor, and Vivid, a woman with a sundress of vivid colors and hair that almost looks natural against her pale skin steps up to the mike. But it's far too bright to actually be natural.

"Hello, hello. Let's begin; we are running a bit on time," Vivid proclaims excitedly, and shoves her red-gloved hand into the bowl, the glove catching a glint of sunlight. She catches a name in the thousands and reads it. Then she steps closer tot he microphone and announces, "Phoenix Grant."

A tall, blonde, blue-eyed boy steps up to the stage with swagger. I indirectly know this boy. He is District Six's playboy, "God's _gift_ to girls."

He, confident with a genuine smile out to all the girls in the crowd, stands on the stage, reacting exactly the opposite of how any other person in District Six might, though I doubt he is actually feeling so upbeat and giddy as he is, and instead just trying to pull an act so that he doesn't look weak, because God forbid the marvelous Phoenix Grant look weak.

"Well, you seem pretty high-and-mighty," rambles Vivid, her voice screechier than usual. Light spits on her golden hair with faint streaks of bright and dark purple. She looks at him expectantly and waits for him to say something amazing, a quote to quote years from now. She does look pretty young and not just made to look young like other Capitol escorts are. But who knows - they could be upgrading the plastic surgery methods.

"I- I, um, am high-and-mighty," Phoenix says, and though he looks like he's holding up, his voice sounds kind of numb and like he isn't sure what's going on. That actually makes sense. "What's that mean?"

"And now," exclaims Vivid, trying to diverge from Phoenix's stupefied ignorance, "we will draw the next of the three names." She draws a name. "Fiasca Ells."

A girl slowly steps up to the stage, dirt-thin. Her hair is greasy and her eyes are shattered into so many broken dreams and sadnesses. She looks weak and so underfed that her skin is paler than a clear glass window. Her shirt is very tight so I can see every one of her ribs and count them exactly. She is almost a walking dead person, and I know that she'll be dead before the Games. Either she'll starve or she'll eat so much that her little, poor stomach won't be able to handle it and it'll burst. She'll die, probably at the dinner table, just trying to get food.

I feel awful for her, because she won't get a quick death at the hands of a sympathetic tribute. She won't make it that far. They'll probably have to have a re-reaping.

"I volunteer!" someone - a male in my section, I think - yells, interrupting the pitiful silence as everyone sends their condolences to this twelve-year-old's poor, poverted family. I am sure that some of the richer folks of the district will give them money or food even though somone is now volunteering.

Shock registers in the crowd - a few gasps and an utter gawking silence. Volunteers are all but nonexistent, a word basically meaning _death__. _Even more so than the word _tribute _is. Volunteers are cocky and ignorant and easily get themselves killed with their giant ego and their lack of any paranoia or sense that they need to watch out for things.

On the stage, the boy tells the girl to go back to her section; the reaping will be over soon and she was never reaped. When she protests that she was, he says, "It's a dream, Fiasca. When you go home and go to sleep, you'll wake up and you'll be safe." The display moves the crowd in a touching way. A few even silently touch their heart, a symbol of respect from District Six. I look over to see Lissa teary-eyed at the spectacle.

"Oh, dear, Cade," she says sadly. "I hope this boy wins, I really do."

I grumble at her and wait for the next name.

I'm not jealous. No, never.

"What's your name?" Vivid asks, dumbfounded and on the verge of bawling.

"Dante Kyanide," says the volunteer with a sad smile, but in his eyes is an obvious glint of mischief.

"Oh, Dante Kyanide," says Vivid. "You are a tribute to remembered, I will tell you this much." She reaches in the bowl with one hand and wipes her eyes with another. Everyone is acting like such melodramatic freaks. "And last but not least... Cade Allens."

Lissa's grip on my hand considerably and her eyes meet with mine. I shrug, because I was planning to volunteer next year anyway. "It's okay, Lis. I train. You know I train," I say, but still she holds onto my hand like a lifeline. "Lissa!" Finally she lets go and I step up to the stage. I stand up straight with my shoulders back and look out at the crowd bravely.

We shake hands, one by one, before Vivid takes us into the Justice Building, where I will say my goodbyes, and then I'll be off.

I'll be off to doom or destiny.

**_D6- 17- (Dante Kyanide)_  
**

Control is of the essence in this life, you know. In mine.

I am a pariah, but not an animal. I am an outcast, a misfit, and loner. But who really cares? I live the way I live, and I live my life. It may be dark and cold and a tad lonesome from time to time, but it's mine, and mine to keep, and it's the one thing I have the most and the least control over. I can control taking a turn and going back to live with my parents; I can control whether I quit my job as a train attendant and starve or keep it and live; but I don't control my fate on the streets. I don't control whether the Peacekeeper I could bump into sometime has had a bad day and has his gun loaded and ready to shoot.

I do control the reaping. Oh, yes, that is the thing everyone wants to control, the thing everyone fears. The reaping, in my home district, is a horribly frightening thing. It's one people lose sleep over, the day that those broken victors look back to and go out of control - because there is that word again. Control. We don't - I don't - control our sanity. At least, I don't think so. Our fate controls our sanity, because it decides if something that everyone, everything, anyone, and anything would go over the deep end happens to us.

I just...like to control what I can, in my short little life that is probably so screwed up it's not even funny in other people's eyes.

Maybe it's not my fault. Maybe it's theirs.

District Six is stereotyped to be crawling with morphlings who paints each other's faces and giggle at sunset together, absentminded and confused, lost in their world of drug abuse and even the occasional case of alcohol along with morphling. We do have the most illegal morphling addicts in the country, but it's not like they are everywhere. They do pop up a lot, sure, but District Six is kind of small. A lot of them stay indoors so they're not caught. At least they still have _som__e _brain cells.

My parents contribute to the drug abuse population in this district.

My brother contributes to the dead.

When I was reaped at age twelve, unprepared and scared, my twin brother volunteered, and he went in, head held high, terror down the drain. Of course, the terror was on his face and his head was glued to his shoes, but still.

He was tortured. I am determined - more than that - to kill the people who are of the same district as she was, the girl who killed him. And to do that I must volunteer, and I will.

And I think I might just make myself look a little better than I am. But hey, if you're going to love me, love me a lot.

**A/N: Dante tells me to tell you that if he could, he would've put in a winky face. So I did. In bold. It's not really part of the story. It's A/N. Oh, fine, _Cato,_ I'll take it out!**

**I'll try to update faster next time, and maybe I can even stop being lazy long enough to add a third POV! :-O  
**


	7. Chapter 7: Fell

**A/N: Gah! Horridly busy/distracted past few weeks! I have been plagued with the stomach flu and a case of Writer's Block that would make any writer go madder than usual!**

**Now, so sorry for the late update. But... You're all Mr. or Mrs. Thick Thick Thick Thickson from Thicktown Thickania, and so's your character(s)!**

**DOCTOR WHO, BABY. **

**_D7- 17- (Decon Groven) _**

I am awake, but my eyes are closed. How is this? Normally when you think of waking you, you see a sleepy person sitting up, stretching, and groaning because they want to sleep more, eyes open so they stay awake, right? This is different. I don't want, under any circumstances, to be awake today, even if it means I have to get awfully sick, kind of like Grandpa, but actually sick. As long as I live. As long as I'm not reaped.

I shiver, and it crawls down my spine, ending in the very tip of my toes. I force my eyes open and the light from a window hits me; I shrink back. It shouldn't be too hard to believe that I couldn't sleep last night, or, rather, didn't want to. I am not a night owl, but sleep wouldn't come last night and now I wish it had. My eyes only go half open, I am too tired to do anything, and I have a major headache.

"Decon," says Mom from outside my door kindly. "Get dressed—you slept in."

Imagine that.

When my mother leaves, I waddle over to my dresser, my eyes now open. I yawn and stretch, then open my dresser. The drawer glides out with ease and I take out a brown suit. My eyes half open, I push off the clothes I fell asleep in late last night, after lying awake for the night, pondering. Shadows crept around my room. With today's events crawling up my spine, I had no room to fear the shadows, and instead feared the silence - the silence of the world and universe and life beating around me, and the threat of twenty-three people's silences and worlds and universes and lives stopping, dropping short.

I slide into the suit with a long sigh and a frustrated huff of breath and move around in tight-fitting, old dress wear. It doesn't suit me or fit me, and it's far too fancy for my likings. I hate it, just like I hate the event that comes with it. Anything directly or only associating with the reaping is never, ever good—usually something I hate for some reason, whether it be that their cheeriness kills me or that I can't stand the tightness of the sleeves.

Now I wander downstairs, my steps a little faster than before because I know I might want to hurry. In the dining room, my mother and father are finishing eating. They have two empty but set plates where my grandfather and I were supposed to sit to eat breakfast with them, but I woke up late, and my grandfather is helplessly, hopelessly, terribly depressed.

"Where's Grandpa?" I ask.

"He's still in bed, Decon," my dad tells me, looking at his watch. Dressed in mildly fancy clothing, he looks just like a less-well-dressed, older version of me. He's more serious, though, but he's long since forgotten what it feels like to be at the reaping. He knows what it's like for your child to be there, a feeling I've never known, but he doesn't quite remember the torturous worry.

"Oh," I say and sit down. Mother puts an egg sandwich on my plate, made with tesserae bread and eggs we've gotten from the market. I devour the delicious breakfast quickly and gulp down my water, knowing I don't have a lot of time until the reaping. Then I stand up and stretch, still waking up. The food has pumped energy into me, but I am still not yet entirely up, having had to pop right out of bed and get ready. "I'll wake Grandpa up."

"I'll do it, Decon," Father tells me, and I shrug, nodding. He stands up, pushed his clean plate towards the rusty old sink, and goes into the hallway, moving towards Grandpa's room. I sit at the dining room table while my mother cleans up. Silence deafens us, and we wait for the other to say something, but even though we both know the other is not going to say anything, neither of us speak up.

My grandfather, once a strong and certain man from what I can tell, staggers mindlessly into the room and sits down. My father walks in behind him and tells him gently to stand up. I know it's time to go, so I say goodbye and nudge Grandpa. "Wish me luck," I tell him, and then walk out the door, the depression of my house evaporating outside. I can still see it and hear it in my head though.

The air is damp and foggy outside. The dirt is not dirt, but instead mucky mud, brown and thick, deep and messy. A cloud wanders past the sun as I walk to the square. Other people walk around me—not in a group, but around me—to the square also: adults, infants, toddlers, children, teenagers. Everyone is required to attend this event.

At the square, I get signed in. A Peacekeeper pricks my finger, gives me a cotton ball to dab the blood away, and sends me off to my section. I deposit of the cotton ball and wait for everyone else to get signed in too, crossing my arms impatiently and drumming my fingers on my elbows. I stare at the ground, the gravelly, wet floor of earth.

Eventually, everyone is signed in and ready. The mayor steps up, recites his speeches without even reading his notes, and introduces our victors and our escort, Tracy Mishclaine. Tracy, dressed in a typical tree-like dress, which is blue-green this year, smiles and waves to the crowd. She speaks, clearly but with that slight, squeaky Capitolian accent, to the crowd.

"Hello, citizens of District Seven," Tracy begins. "Welcome to the reaping of the One Hundred Fifty-second Annual Hunger Games! This year, we will reap three lucky tributes to compete in the Games and represent District Seven!" She smiles brighter. "We will begin now, drawing from the singular bowl." She sticks her hand in, and then draws the name out slowly.

Reading it, she pauses.

For a moment, everyone is still with anticipation, fear, or both.

"Jaelyn Annaletto," says Tracy Mishclaine into the microphone.

No one steps up. Small children's voices begin to cry out.

Then, a girl with medium-height chestnut steps out from the fifteens' section. She has dark brown eyes and plain beige skin. She walks rigidly, her arms glued awkwardly to her sides. The girl - Jaelyn, I guess - steps onto the stage and looks down, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her skinny fingers brushing her pale face, blanch from the shock.

"Congratulations, Jaelyn," says Tracy Mishclaine, who then smiles and lets her hand drop back into the ball. "Decon Groven!"

Once it settles in after a mere second that the name is mine, one though flutters into my head: _Fuck my life. _

My feet shuffle forward. All eyes of everyone in the country are trained on me, and only me. Their thoughts are pinned in some way to the boy walking to the stage, head down, eyes filled with grimness. I'm a tribute, the poor reaped child sent to die. And all I can hope for right now is that I can make it past the bloodbath, unlike the tributes last year.

Stepping up the menacing, gray, stone steps, I feel my hands begin to tremble violently. I grip the hem of mu suit's jacket so that it's not apparent that I'm shaking. I look down at the old, wooden stage, made fifty-three years ago after the reincarnation of the Hunger Games, the very event and war that led to me standing up on this stage, looking out at the crowd.

"Congrats, Decon," Tracy says. She smiles and picks the next name, so quickly that I don't even have time to think before "Damien Andrews" is being called to the stage. He rigidly walks up to the stage, probably the most even out of the three of us. Jaelyn looks over to me, but I look away, not wanting my competitors to think that I will spare them or be kind to them in any way, shape, or form. We are opponents.

The three of us exchange handshakes. Then we're escorted into the Justice Building and Tracy is taking us into an elevator. The ride seems endless and very, very short at the same time, but as soon as it's over, there is a blur of getting Jaelyn and I to appropriate goodbye rooms and then Damien is shuffled into an extra room down the hall.

I sit in the goodbye rooms a long time before my mother walks into the room. She runs over to me and hugs me. I pat her back and she sobs lightly into my jacket. "Oh, Decon. Decon, Decon, no!"

"Mother, let go," I tell her. When she does, I say, "I'm sorry. I love you. I'll try to win."

Father staggers in with Grandpa. Grandpa has tears in his eyes, but he doesn't let them fall. Father sits him in a chair, and he stares at me the whole time, cold and steely blue eyes peering through me, just like mine. There aren't even hints of raven black in his raven hair like mine though, and I watch as the man who ages every day and is far past his physical age in grief, depression, and those occasional hints of wisdom that he shows so very rarely.

Mother sits down next to me. Father paces, cursing and hitting things. Eventually he turns to me, his cold blue eyes practically turning me to stone as if he were the one snake-lady from Greek mythology, which we only hardly go over at school. Really, it's all about trees. We don't even go very deep into botany; we study pine and oak; elm and sassafras; firewood and home-building wood. What we study the most, though, is the best techniques for cutting down wood or building homes or what we should know for whatever job we wish to pursue; in fact, shop class is mandatory for people ages fifteen- though eighteen-years-old if you take certain classes.

"Son," starts my father, but then he becomes fidgety again and has to pause. "Son..."

At a loss for words, he grips the armrest of the couch across from Mother and I, sliding down into its red velvet protection.

Will he tell me to win and kill the innocent, becoming just as wretched as the dead man who killed my granddad's brother, Falcon? Or will he ask me to remain pure and _die?_

_Truthfully, there is no answer._

"Mercy," Grandfather says, speaking up. "Make it a virtue. Follow your virtues."

That's his way of saying, "_It's alright. I give you my permission._"

Do I want permission to kill? Of course I do. I don't need the permission, but it's nice to have.

"But..." I protest, anyway.

"Don't." He shakes his head, and then mutters the only advice I'll ever truly follow: "_Gently._ Be someone to look up to...when you return."


	8. Chapter 8: Mad Hatter

**A/N: Another shorty! My excuse: I HATE TIME. Enjoy, and I'll try - I will _try_ - to do better next time!**

There's a girl, in a house, with a brown hair and milky blue eyes that wander off into their own little world. She's a hatter, and the maddest of them all. She's spacey, and when she's not in her own world, with rainbows and rhymes and nothing but good times, she's volatile because the real world is so painful—too painful for this poor, mad girl to handle—that she goes insane and gets violent to block it out.

Her parents and her brother try to help, but they don't exist in her imaginary world, one of a little kid's mindset even though she's thirteen. With those milky eyes that pray for someone to help her even when she doesn't know it, she looks around her world—and that's not what she sees. She doesn't see the anger and the suffering and the torture. Or when she does, she's too off the edge to drink it into her fake world.

This girl—so skinny, as she's of the poorest—is named Alicia.

It's a shame, too. She's so pretty. She'd be so pretty, and so many can see it, if she weren't psycho—if she weren't another girl than the one people see. She's not Alicia Ludwig, the girl who lives in Panem and is about to come face-to-face with her second reaping. She's Alicia Ludwig, the queen of Alicialand, where there's always a rainbow and she always get what she wants and she never starves, because that's not allowed in her dreamland. Pain does not exist. She erased its existence long ago when she began working as a hatter, approximately when she was nine and modeling off of her mother. Her mother soon got a better job, but poor little Alicia didn't.

Hatters use mercury in their processing. All those feather caps and diamond-studded party headwear that the Capitol takes for granted rotted a District Eight person's mind, robbed them of their true thoughts and being, ripping it from their brain and sending it into the depths of mercury, which destroys the brain. It ripped this girl—this girl that could be so beautiful in mind and being—of her beauty and replaced it with some insane person's mind that was trapped in the mercury. Because this girl, so lost and never to be found, can't be the Alicia Ludwig the world once knew. It's impossible.

…

Alicia wakes up on the morning of the reaping from a nightmare—or was it a dream? It's hard to tell. She looks around her bedroom with a cheery smile and swings her legs off the bed. Then she stands up and walks bouncily over to her door. She opens it and skips down the hallway to the bathroom, where she pats her hair but does not brush it, and smears the cheap, inexpensive toothpaste that the Ludwigs got a hold of on a stroke of luck onto a toothbrush, but does not use either of them.

Then she wanders back to her room and lies down to sleep for another hour.

…

When she wakes up for good, she wanders around her room until she stands before her closet. Alicia opens the door and looks through it, until she finds a pretty green gown that's very pretty; she has to giggle because she's sure it'll be gorgeous on her. In reality, it's grungy and way too small for her, but green as day, you have to give her that. If this were a test of colors, she'd ace it entirely.

But it's not. It's life, and that's the one thing where Alicia's gone a little askew. And it's not because of any bad choices. It's because of where she decided to work.

Alicia takes her pajamas off and then puts her dress on, putting a matted clump of dark brown hair behind her ears. She takes a few steps in her white sneakers that she wore to bed and didn't take off when dressing or undressing, almost as though they were high heels. Then she elegantly steps out of her bedroom, escaping to the rest of the house, particularly the kitchen, because she's famished.

"Good morning, Alicia," her mother says to her.

"Adorning this morning with a warning," Alicia mumbles, and it's poetic to her. That's what she wants to be. Or, no, she's a hatter. Oops. She giggles out loud to her own jumble of thoughts.

"You look positively fabulous," Alicia hears her brother say. He really says: "Alicia, that dress is too small for you..."

She does this all the time. She hears what people say, but before she can understand, she translates it into what she wants to hear in her world, because to her, the dress is flawless. She is flawless. She's not mad or violent or so skinny that if she had enough food, she'd die because her small stomach couldn't handle it.

"Sit down for breakfast," Alicia's mother tells her, scolding Dodge quietly so Alicia doesn't hear. Dodge the girl's eight-year-old brother who is scared of his older sister but never voices the worriment when she's around.

Alicia does as she's told, smiling at her parents who have already began eating their meager breakfast, which is surprisingly small, especially for reaping day. One buttered piece of burnt raisin bread. It's not even toast; it's just burnt bread. It looks like someone meant to toast it, failed, through it out, and the Ludwigs fished it out of the trash.

Alicia hardly notices. It's got a funny taste, is all. She gobbles it, trying to savor it, and then swallows down her glass of tap water that is probably just one bacterium away from being poisonous. This does not quench her hunger, but she shrugs it off simply because she thinks she's ready to face the day and befriend a bird. Or a leaf.

A worm! She had forgotten about her pet worm Jim the Tim Bob. Junior prince and head of Worm Headquarters. She wonders if the worm is still alive.

No, she doesn't want to go befriend some filthy little mud creature. She decides she won't.

"We must leave for the reaping in ten minutes," the Dodge family mother says quietly. Alicia smiles and walks outside. Ten minutes is enough to do something, right?

There's someone outside on their lawn, where Alicia wants to go do whatever she feels like. That's her place he took. He can't do that! Fury bubbles up in her and the happy, spacey girl that picked out the too-small green dress falls away, leaving the violent girl who strikes out rather than face the world as it is; she uses violence and anger to wash away at the world when it comes in to view.

She runs at him, a noise rising from the back of her throat. As she lets it out, she jumps at the boy, and he screeches. Alicia covers his mouth and just starts pummeling him. Tears stream down her face as she kicks and slaps and pinches and bites; instead of more enraged, back-of-throat noises, she lets out a choked sobbing sound. Her father comes out, unbeknownst to her, and rips her off of the boy; Henry Ludwig calling out apologies as the bruised boy runs away, sobbing relentlessly. Alicia cries, too.

But then she "wakes up." She was awake the whole time, but she doesn't remember attacking the poor boy named Khaki Delaware. If she went back to her volatile state, then she'd remember; she'd remember every detail of hitting him and cursing under her breath and hearing his sobs as he ran away. But Alicia, with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, bounces up. "What's going on?"

She staggers off before getting an answer.

…

At the reaping, she cringes away from the shock when getting signed in, but doesn't make a fuss. Thank goodness. Her family might already be in dear trouble from her episode earlier.

She steps into her group with the rest of the Thirteens. Her heart is one of the stillest in the square, because of course, she only hardly gets this; she doesn't know to feel the fear. Hell, she probably thinks winning the reaping is like getting to go to a palace and becoming the new ruler of Panem. That would be fun. Alicia would like that a lot.

The mayor rambles.

Alicia listens, but it's translated into words of gorgeousness, not war and anger and pain.

Then the escort steps up, looking almost pretty, Alicia thinks, but she's a bit too…bright.

"This is our chance, District Eight! Welcome, welcome, welcome, you all, to our chance to bring pride to the district and show the country that District Eight is strong," the escort says, smiling widely. "Today we'll draw the names of the tribute—the three tributes this year—to win the Games and bring back pride and food and prizes. Let us begin."

The woman puts her hand in the large glass bowl with all of its names and surprises and death sentences. She draws just one—just one—unlucky name: "Amelia Axton."

A girl with hair as red as fire and skin as pale as snow steps up to the stage, and no one is pleased for this poor twelve-year-old. But a boy steps up and yells, "I, Daniel Axton, volunteer!"

"Oh, she's—and you're a he…" The escort looks down at the podium, flipping through papers. "Oh, okay. Yes, you may volunteer, due to the fact that genders don't matter for these Games…" The escort nods and smiles, waiting for the boy to join her up on the stage.

Now, somewhat baffled and uncomfortable, the escort congratulates Daniel Axton and moves on.

She calls a name, and Alicia hears it. She waits a little bit before meandering staggeringly up to the stage, for the escort said, "Alicia Ludwig."

Next is the poor sap called Damon Grey, who, with wide eyes, comes up to the stage and then simply…freezes.

Before any of them know it, they're shaking hands and being escorted to what could very well be the last time they see any of their family members again. But Alicia doesn't even know that.


	9. Chapter 9: Grain

**A/N: Three words.**

**I'M SO SORRY...**

**I've been procrastinating, or busy, or just Writer's Blocked to high hell...**

**BUT IT'S HERE NOW!**

**Now, news. I hate reapings. Completely. They're boring. I just...I hate them. For a while, I can tolerate them. But then...just...no. And if you guys want to wait two or three weeks for updates until Capitol chapters and want me to finish the reapings with low quality...I will. But if you think it's not worth it, like me, I'm skipping to the Capitol chapters. Sorry to the people who were skipped. **

**_D9- 17- (Asher Lightwood)_  
**

I once became surprisingly close to dating a tribute. Maybe it's a stupid story, but I treasure it. Because she's dead.

It was last fall, before the Games. I had tried once, but she seemed so busy, so focused, that I couldn't bother—not that day. I figured I would wait until after the reaping, maybe. I knew that people were always less tense after the reaping is over, because if you're actually in the district at that time, as long as you're not the family or friend of a tribute, you're in the clear and know that it will be a relatively deathless year for you.

Her name was Artemis. Artemis Nightheart. She was very pretty too, with long, jet black hair and eyes that held an endless gray storm that was so tempting to enter and become one with that you could almost say she was enticing. And she was very mysterious, so of course that only made her more desirable. I think she noticed the attention she got from admirers, but subconsciously wrote it off before she comprehended it; she was just mysterious like that, and it seemed that she noticed the attention…without noticing it.

Mysterious people are always so confusing.

But she was reaped, and she came so close to winning—I rooted for her, all the way, to the end, that mysterious girl who was a few months younger than me—but then she died, in a tragic battle towards the end that will be honored in all the history of District Nine. Artemis Nightheart, the girl to continue the rebellious interview streak, won't ever be forgotten, I'm sure. Of course, Aria Garnet is a little more memorable, what with her gruesome, sick death and the fact that she was the first to make a quote that will last to the end of time in her interviews: "Don't forget us."

So it's been a sort of hard year for me, even though it was a District Nine tribute that won. But I didn't know Gray Hager. I knew Artemis. I'd talked to her before, in person.

None of that matters anymore. All that matters is living to the next day. And I do that by working in the fields like my mother and father, but I work a lot longer than they do to get extra money. My family is always telling me how I shouldn't work so hard, but I do it anyway, and we're all alive and living as well as we can because of it. Sometimes I even skip school to work all day long, but I only do this when we're having a particularly hard time.

I wake up on the day of the reaping, pretty exhausted from a sleep so restless that it shouldn't even be considered a sleep. I

get out of my bed and instinctively go over to my eight-year-old brother Jace's bed. He's out like a light, sleeping like the stump he is. I shake him lightly until he groans then I mutter his name repeatedly, hardly getting it through my lips, I'm still so tired.

"Whaaaat?" he groans, drawing out the word and turning into more of a moan than a question.

"Wake up." I shake Jace again.

"No!" he refuses, flipping over and burying his defiant little face into the pillow, grumblings under his breath. "I'm still sleepy."

"I'm sleepier than you, little brother," I tell him, and let out a large, long, loud yawn to prove my point. "Just get up."

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no…"

He's probably already awake now, but you see, my little brother is as stubborn in the morning as a rock. Tell him to move, and he just won't. Often he'll even be so stubborn that my parents just let him skip school. When he was six, he'd skipped so much school, we had to drag him out of his bed and force him to go to his little kindergarten classroom, thereby making _me_ late for _my_ first class.

"Jace Lightwood, wake up and this will all be _so much_ easier."

"No."

"Wake up or I'll get Mom up here."

"No!"

"Fine, I'll have Beatrice sit on you and Ada slobber all over your sleepy little self," I threaten, and I really will have them do that so that no one is late or absent from the reaping—in which we should all beg for our dear lives that we act ill to the point of not telling time _very well._ Or else we'll be punished. And then acting as though we're on our deathbeds will not be so difficult.

And in other depressing news, it's my little sister's first reaping. Great. I can already see her little ashen face signing in and then see her form visibly _shake_ as she goes to her section. Of course, I'm probably just overestimating the amount of fear she'll hold, but the image still plagues me. I don't dare picture her little ashen face let the tears fall as her feet move up to the stage.

Jace, grumbling so much it nearly drives me mad, finally gets up, slinging his feet over the side of the bed on the side that I'm not leaning over and goes to his small dresser. He throws out a shirt and pants and then climbs back in bed in his nightclothes. "There. I'll be ready when it's time to go."

"That's it. I'm sending Ada and Tris," I tell him, and exit my room to go to my sisters'. I knock on their door quietly so as not to wake my two-year-old sister up if she's deep into sleep. Beatrice answers the door almost immediately, her black, curly hair askew in natural ringlet-like locks in front of her face. She sighs. "It's Jace."

"I figured," she mumbles. "Need me to wake him up?"

"Yes, please," I groan. "He is a morning pain."

"Hey, so are you, sometimes."

"Rarely, Beatrice," I tell her in a mumbled voice.

Beatrice rolls her eyes. "How many times does Mom have to tell you not to mumble before you stop?" She sighs, but it quickly turns into a large, noisy yawn. "It's annoying."

"No one can stop me from mumbling," I say to her with a smile and pat my little sister's head. "Not Mom, not Dad, not you or Jace or Ada."

"Not even Ada?" she exclaims with mock-surprise. "I'm getting dress. Go wake Jace up." She smirks.

I roll my eyes and trudge away from her door, going back to my room and picking my little brother out of his bed. I sit him down on the floor and go to my dresser, where my reaping clothes are. I take out a decent gray shirt and black somewhat dressy pants. Then I kneel next to my groaning brother and tell him to go out and wait for breakfast. He, grumbling, obliges, and I get dressed.

And here we go again, for another year.

...

"Eat your bread, Jace Lightwood."

"But-"

"Hey, hey, hey!" my mother says, raising an eyebrow. "Your father, your brother, and I worked hard to get you that bread and you will not let it go to waste. Now, have it while it's still warm."

"Yes, Mom..."

My family sits around the table, dressed to our finest, as we eat our breakfast. A solemnness has settled throughout the room, even in my littler siblings Ada and Jace. Silence laces the graveness that fills us as we eat, and it's rather cliché - silence sits upon us as he eat. All the same and nonetheless, it's entirely true. I find myself beginning to feel sick. If I eat another bite, I might vomit. So I stop eating and stare around.

...

Eventually everyone finishes, and I hop out of my seat immediately. Rushing to the living room, I plop down on the couch and escape the awkwardness of the kitchen and breakfast with a sigh of relief. The bread finally settles and I am no longer liable to puke - thank God - but I still do not feel well. Of course I don't. No sane non-Career eligible district citizen would feel good on reaping day.

At least, I figure, I can volunteer for my little sister this year if she's reaped. I'd like to think I'd have the guts to do this, but with all honesty, it's not certain that I would. I'd protect Beatrice, Jace, and Ada to the ends of the Earth, but I am weak and I have a habit of freeze up when nervous, scared, or shocked - a natural response to many people for such stimuli.

…

Beatrice looks to me for guidance as we enter the square. I nod reassuringly and take her to be signed in. She goes before me, waiting diligently after they've drawn her blood so I can be signed in, her fingers clutching her shirt's fabric as she struggles to maintain calmness.

They zap me after my wait of about twenty minutes—every child in the district; it's going to be a long sign-in line—and finally I take my little sister to a clearer spot.

"Just head for the Twelves. Look for your friends maybe."

"You're going to the Seventeens," she states absently.

"Well, I'm seventeen, Tris…" I say, giving her a slight, weak smile.

She shoots me a glare. "_Beatrice_," she snaps, a shiver noticeably crawling through her. That name is the last name I want to hear today, tied with "Asher."

Beatrice slowly then meanders through the tightly-woven crowed to her age group section.

I make my way to my section, too, and then I stand there for what seems like the longest time while I wait for the mayor to step up to the stage and recite his speeches.

Once he does, I wish he never had. It's a grueling process of longing and wishing you'd never longed for, the reaping is, where waiting is a delicacy that you don't realize is so great until you're not waiting anymore. It's one that you could eat up for nights and nights over, but you'd still feel ever-so-hungry, until you're finally faced with the feast, when you realize you're too full to eat it.

In short, you wait and wish the waiting was over until you're at the reaping, when you wish the waiting had never ended.

Soon the escort is up, and the names are being drawn. The names.

I'm not surprised. So much tesserae... Putting on a smirk and walking up to the stage, the person who owns the stage doesn't seem scared, though he is.

"Asher Lightwood" is the first name called.


	10. Chapter 10: Train Rides, Part One

**__**_A/N: I'm gonna try a new little A/N setup maybe. I like the way it looks in other stories._

_Well, it's already been sixteen days since I updated, huh? I could've sworn it was, maybe, ten... Oh, well. I'm going to do train rides in three parts so I don't leave you all waiting for a few months..._

_So, here we go!_

* * *

**_D12- 15/16- (Astrid Levine)_**

Okay, I'm terrified. Already.

My district partners are _insane._ Utterly. It's completely scary how messed up they are, what with their glares and their…I don't even know, but the way they both _smirked_—and not just in that way that people do so they don't seemed scared; it was actually menacing, as menacing as the escort's fake claws, and more so—when they walked up to the stage sent me off the edge quickly. Now that I've spent hours with them, I can hardly look at them, for fear their gazes will turn me to stone.

And it doesn't help that our only mentor is insane too, speaking only in four-worded sentences. I don't know how she does it; it seems like it would be very hard to keep up that pattern for so long. But she's done it for as long as I can remember, and it's annoying. I cannot stand it, honestly, and she keeps repeating this same phrase throughout her tedious, useless, mindless speeches: "Stay and stay alive." What the hell does that mean?

"Hey, little girl's daydreaming," the girl says—Carlyn Hansen—as she mocks Bella Diaz, the mentor.

Bella doesn't notice.

Krumr looks at me and nods. His gaze chills me and I look away, blushing, as his eyes bore into my skull as if trying to either see what I'm thinking or murder my brain. I suspect he's picturing the second, disturbing option with a large longing. To kill me. What fun.

"Don't mock Astrid Levine," Bella tells them sternly, shaking her head. "Mocking peers isn't good. It shouldn't be encouraged. Nor be it rewarding. Though you like it. The both of you. It is not kind."

"Is it not kind? I had never noticed. Rather a pity, eh? I would say so." Carlyn smiles almost sweetly at Bella, but it's patronizing, obviously. I hope Bella doesn't notice it, because I don't want to see her angry. Insane people tend to be very frightening when angry, or so I've seen before. These two, Carlyn and Krumr, are insane and are frightening just because that's the way they are. I'm going to try to avoid them in the arena if I can.

"Don't mock me either," Bella snaps, standing up from her chair and wandering out of the room. Trell Ule, the escort, stares in what may be awe at the two, before walking off towards Bella.

_Oh, sure,_ I think crossly. _Leave me with the psychopaths._

I cringe as both of them turn to me, as if they heard my thoughts, but they are merely frowning, sizing me up. At least, that's what I'm assuming. I give a short, pathetic wave, and mentally scold myself. Waving? Ugh.

"Hello, _Astrid Levine,_" the boy, Krumr, says. He's tall and muscular. He's built of muscles. He could crush me like a bug, and he's from District Twelve! That wouldn't surprise me, if it didn't look like he came from town, but he does. He doesn't look Seam-like at all. I somewhat do, with my long raven hair and dark eyes, but I have pale skin, unlike the usual olive skin tones littered around the Seam. I don't stick out much, I suppose, in appearance.

I shrink down a hundred times. Hopefully I only do this mentally, but it feels like I've done it physically too. "Hello," I reply in a small voice, swallowing. He looks and acts like a Career, so I may as well view him as such.

"You're quiet," he says chillingly, with a scratchy, low voice. "Why are you so quiet?"

"You're a tribute," I tell him calmly, trying to grow back up and assume maturity rather than feeling like a small child faced with a large bear and no one to protect me from it. "You should know."

"You must miss your family," he taunts.

"I don't know. I just left them." I pause, and blurt out, "Do you?"

"I don't have a family."

I bite my lip. "Oh, I'm sorry."

Krumr rolls his eyes and turns away, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, but it's a large sound of relief, and I blush as soon as I hear how loud it is out of my mouth.

"You're not fun to mess with," he growls, snatching up water an Avox is offering him and shooing the noiseless servant away. I watch her go, and wonder if Capitolites find Avoxes waiting soundlessly on them normal. They most likely do.

_Mess with?_

Oh, great. Another image to keep me up at night. That guy—that despicable, reaped guy—messing with his prey in his arena.

Carlyn is just watching me, her blonde town-girl hair neatly-combed and kempt, her long bangs swept to the side. Her clothing is not particularly gorgeous, especially for a town person going to the reaping. All the same, her cold, hard glare that's not just callous or scared and resentful towards opponents is disturbing. It's not normal. It's not a District Twelve person's stare. In all honesty, it's just creepy. The whole train is creepy. Why must this whole train be creepy?

Well, I guess I was just put in the madhouse.

**_D1- 17- (Adelina Summerfield)_**

"You idiot!"

My sister cringes at the insult as soon as we're back in my car so we can talk about the fact that she didn't let anyone volunteer for her sorry little ass. She hangs her head and goes over to sit down on the bed, placing her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand. We sit in silence for at least five minutes, collecting what to say, cooling down, and not wanting to get into an argument. I look over at her sadly after the five minutes are up.

"Addie, I wasn't…_thinking!_" Daphne explains, shaking her head at the poor excuse to send us both into the arena together, as opponents, where only one can win, and one of us will win, but the other will lose their sister, their best friend. "And you seemed to be happy with the idea just as I…seemed to be…"

I'm terrified of both options.

"You need to think more," I snap, though my will to continue being so harsh on her is failing. She was blinded by the Games. She made her decision, and then it was too far to go back. "And I _had_ to. What am I going to do, deny the audience of an exciting little thing and keep them from thinking, 'Oh, look, they seem like the planned this; I think I'll sponsor them'?"

"At least we'll have each other's backs," Daphne says weakly, smiling, though her eyes are dangerously red. I wipe at mine just in case and shrug. "Come on, that'll be cool! The two Summerfields, watching out for each other, slitting the throat of whoever tries to screw with the other."

I sigh. "I suppose. We'll make it quite the Games, won't we?"

"And the sponsors will be lining up for us in general, let alone to sponsor the tragedy that was the sisters who so unfortunately ended up in the Games."

"They never play that angle when siblings come in," I point out, cocking my head.

Daphne smirks. "They're usually not hot twins from Career districts."

I laugh, nodding. Daphne stands up and hugs me. I hesitate before hugging my sister back, and we hug for a long time, because now we're not each other's friends. We're only sisters. Sisters and allies. No, more than allies—partners in the Games. We'll stick close to the other to the very end, and then sob at the other's grave. Well, she might sob. I'll have to hold it in _somehow_ if she dies first, because I'm the stronger one. I'll sob for days when I'm in peace.

"That's right, they're not," I say, nodding now. "But _we_ are, so I suppose this should be a lot of fun…"

"It'll be fun anyway. It's the _Games._"

"This only adds to it!"

Azalea knocks on the door to my room, calling in quietly, "Girls? It's dinnertime. Your mentors want to talk, also."

I sigh, exiting my sister's arms and pulling on a scowl, just for Azalea, to make her think she interrupted something so utterly vital it's nearly inexcusable, for I think messing with Capitolites when it comes to manners will be fun. I won't do it with sponsors or anyone important, but for someone as airheaded and useless as an escort… Well, honestly, how can I refuse?

I slide over to the door and open it, peeking my head out to Azalea. "Give us a moment, please. We want to change out of our reaping clothes."

"Oh, yes, of course." Azalea nods. "Finish your conversation—I understand. Just know that the mentors are waiting."

My scowl turns into a sliver of a grin, a hint at a smile, for I truly don't mind this escort, Azalea Darkhart. Obviously she snooped in on our conversation, but I'd have done the same thing, and she confronted my lying to her cleverly. I suppose I like her because she reminds me of myself, but I don't want her or anyone to know this, so I push back the ghost of a smile and roll my eyes.

"Whatever you say. Just give us a moment, will you?"

When she leaves, Daphne looks at me with raised eyebrows. "Harsh much? I mean, Azalea is almost okay…"

"When have you ever known me to act like I actually like someone? Yes, Azalea is pretty cool," I admit. "But I don't want her to _know_ that. It's a superiority thing."

"Oh, so I'm not superior to people, and you are?" Daphne asks, cocking her head, and despite her words, I know by her tone and expression that she didn't mean it as harsh as it came out; she's simply wondering what I could possibly mean, because I always rank us as equals, though since her emotions oftentimes envelop her, I'd say I was just slightly superior.

"No, it's not that. It's just that, though you can show your…manipulative and such side, you don't always like I do, you know." I shrug. "You know this."

"I'm always deceptive. That's manipulative, and therefore superior."

"Yes, but deception is silent. You don't show deception," I explain, going over to my dresser and getting out clothes to put on. "I show my manipulative side openly most of the time. Blackmail, threats…"

Daphne comes up next to me and takes out clothes as well from the small dresser. The closet, I'm sure, holds much more, but I've already picked out a decent outfit from the dresser, so I slide the drawers shut and we both get dressed. Then we head out to the dining room, where our mentors, Azalea, and Gleam Diode sit.

Every year, it seems, new mentors come. I'm not complaining, though it would be much easier to train to the expectations of a mentor you know will be mentoring and has been for years. This year, the three mentors are two females and a young male—he's the winner of a recent Games, having won at age seventeen, but with such brutality that he qualified to be a mentor early, and is now twenty. I dearly hope I get the male, Carnelian Jeffers. A little flirting here and there is almost a hobby for me.

The other two are Amethyst Littleton and Morganite Gregory, aged twenty-eight and thirty-two respectively. All three of the mentors are in their best shape and were trained to train. They must qualify to mentor just like they must qualify to volunteer, and most don't even qualify until age twenty-two or twenty-three. Amethyst and Morganite have been the most consistent mentors, except for the past two years, with the changing of the mentors for the most part.

"We've talked it over," Amethyst begins, "and based on your skills and ours, we've chosen our tributes."

Morganite nods, her curly blonde hair falling in a halo around her head, though not literally, but I'm sure that some Capitolite has it like that somewhere. "Yes. Gleam, you'll be mine," she announces, looking over at Gleam Diode, who looks up from the place she was staring at on the floor idly.

"Okay," she says, standing up.

"We're not starting yet," Morganite tells her.

Gleam nods. "I know. I want to stand," she says, and her voice is polite, but there is a hint of snappiness laced in it.

"Daphne," Amethyst says evenly, smiling at my sister. Daphne looks over to me, biting her lip to avoid from laughing as she sees that I've gotten paired with Carnelian. I swallow a smile, smirk, grin, or really any facial expression that might come my way as I look over at him. "You're with me."

Carnelian waves me over. "Adelina, you're obviously with me."

I nod, going over to him. He leads me into the car that holds the television and sits me down for a strategy talk, and for the most part I'm listening, but I'm also thinking, about a lot. And not just how I'll flirt with Carnelian over these next few weeks, though that pops up in my head. I'm thinking about Daphne and what we're going to do, and the Careers and the Games and what lies ahead.

But for now, I guess I can just sit back and relax. After all, what could go wrong as of right now? A very, very cute victor is telling me how to win the Games. Life is good.

_**D9- 15/16- (Aeris Lockhart)**_

_"_Aeris!_" my sister shrieked, her voice so shrill and terrified you'd think she was being murdered and calling for her sister to come save her._

_But nope, Lara Lockhart was _not _being murdered, not at all. Quite the contrary, actually, due to the fact that she was very much alive and breathing, probably more than ever before, when I burst into the room where my mother, father, Aunt Midna, and grandparents slept—when they were home. My father was dead, Aunt Midna and my grandpa were out working at their meager-paying jobs like usual, and my grandmas had taken my mother to an apothecary's. Mother had been ill as long as I could remember. But as we were poor, these trips were scarce and had to be long-saved for. _

_There was one more person who slept in that room, in a baby's cradle._

_"It's Amelia, Aeris!" Lara cried as she stared down into the crib. I looked with her, and my eyes widened when I saw the little baby—my little sister—with a too-white face and no rising chest, no movement at all. My first clue should've been that she wasn't sobbing at all the yelling, but I guess I was to terrified to see that possibility; after all, it could've been anyone dead._

_It was Amelia. Little tiny Amelia._

_I didn't have to; it was obvious she was dead. But I still reached down to feel for her heartbeat, and the small person gave no such thing. She was cold, too—oh-so-cold. How long had she been dead? was the question that flitted through my head as I numbly picked up what was once my living, breathing, functioning sister, who then was no more than a corpse. I rocked the body as I crashed to my knees and sobbed. _

_I stood up and put Amelia back in the crib as I came to my senses. Lara, past her fear, was finally sobbing too. I looked her in the eyes, and even though my heart had been broken so hard, I ordered sternly and earnestly, "_Stay put_. Stay put, Lara. I'll round up the others, and you have to make sure they stay in our room, got me?" _

_Lara nodded numbly as her hyperventilating breaths slowed. "Is she…?"_

_"Shh, we'll figure this out, okay, Lara?" I asked with a calm voice, though my face was red and blotchy._

_She nodded._

_"Good. Now go on. Go on to our room."_

_Lara went to our room and I went around the house gathering the other children: my other little sister Nova and my two little brothers, Phoebus and Luke, and my little cousin, Kyle. I told them to go to Nova, Lara, and my room, and they obliged without a word. Everyone knows not to cross me when I am sad or stern, and at that moment, I was both._

The dream—no, not a dream; nightmare, or memory, or better yet, nightmarish memory—ends there, and I wake up. For a moment, I am so glad to be awake and away from the nightmarish memory that all I can do is relish in the moment before me, until I realize that any moments before me will only involve more death and pain and loss.

Things just suck lately.

I realize I dozed off in my room very early yesterday; I hadn't even had dinner yet. Maybe it was four? I think it was. Now it's four a.m., meaning I had twelve hours of sleep, and though this refreshes me greatly, I still feel so weary, from the nightmarish memory and the reality.

I head out to the main car, knowing that we'll be entering the Capitol soon. No matter how despicable its people are, the city is irrefutably gorgeous.

Out there, I find one of my district partners: Asher Lightwood. He turns around even though I try to keep my tread light. Then we just stare at each other for a few moments, without anything to say, and it's rather awkward because I don't even know what to think. Tan skinned, dark haired, grey eyed, and tall heighted, he's average-looking in that beautiful ways people tend to be, and it looks like he's not totally underfed either.

"Um, hello," I eventually say, to break the silence. Even the Ice Queen hates awkward silences.

That's my nickname, for the little amount of emotion or care that I show unless I'm around my family. I'm sure if you've ever heard of me, you haven't heard of Aeris Lockhart, but instead the Ice Queen, devoid of emotions other than coldness, sarcasm if that's even a feeling, sternness. But if you knew me, you'd know that that's definitely not who I am—not entirely.

"Hey," Asher says quietly, patting the seat next to him on the couch.

I stare at where he requested I sit for the longest of times—at least too long to be natural. Asher cocks his head and shrugs eventually, staring back out at the tunnel that will soon reveal the city. Does he not get that we're supposed to hate each other? To fight to the death? And he wants me to _sit with him and watch the Capitol come along?_ The Capitol is gorgeous! It's practically romanticism to do such a thing with such closeness… Can that even happen?

Definitely not.

"It's coming," he mutters, turning back to me. "C'mon."

I sigh, rolling my eyes and going over to the couch. It's more of a loveseat, really, which I am not comfortable with. He grins at his triumph at succeeding to get me to sit down, to which I roll my eyes again and look at the window, gluing my eyes to the outside where the Capitol will soon stand. I try not to notice how it's impossible to sit like this without our legs touching in the rubbish seat.

The Capitol rolls into our sight, all candied and sweet, gorgeous beyond measure, with its bright yellows and lavenders and sky-blues. I try not to look at the people with the too-bright yellows and too-pink lavenders and too-neon sky-blues, the artificial faces and the scary and worked-on extremities, like tattooed arms or even some canes for legs.

"The city's pretty, at least," my district partner says quietly, staring in awe of the city. It truly is awe-inspiring, the tall buildings and festive signs. The people gather up near the train and try to peek in to see who this is, even though it's four in the morning. A bunch of obviously drunk people pile out of a building nearby and stagger over to the others, trying to get a glimpse.

I look over at him. "Yeah, well, our bodies are going to be brought back to this city. Will it be pretty then? When your dead body is in a casket?"

"Uh…"

"I think not."

This brings on another silence, of course, but I couldn't help it. They took away my father and don't give us enough food for my sister to be alive, and they make my life just _hell_, and now they're putting me in the Games? I can't take it. I just can't _take it_ anymore. That was an explosion to get it out of my system, but it sure as hell isn't quite all the way out yet.

"Sorry," I mumble. "Got frustrated."

Asher shakes his head, smiling slightly. "It's fine," he assures me. "This _is_ all very frustrating business, being reaped."

"Glad you agree…" I reply, rolling my eyes.

"What _I_ am surprised about, Miss Ice Queen, is the emotion. I've heard that you show no frustration, anger, pain… You're just sarcastic, cynical, and callous," he tells me, looking over. "I heard you're a menace for company and that any moment with you is the dullest or more frustrating thing in the world."

"Well, what's your verdict?" I ask, raising an eyebrow and looking out at the Capitol again.

"I like your opinions," he says simply.

"Well, then. You'll be awful to kill."

"Oh, please. Everyone knows that the Careers or desperate people are the only ones that kill their district partners." He flashes me a wry grin. "So looks like you'll just be privileged with not having to do the task."

"Or vice versa…" I murmur, straightening my jaw angrily. Maybe I do want him to win if I don't. He likes my opinions and it would get my family rewards. But if it's not him, it has to be me. Really. It just…it has to be. Me, Asher, or Fiona Ryder, our other district partner.

"Or vice versa," he agrees. "So, that settled…allies?"

I consider this, and my only response is a shrug and a simple "Why the hell not?"


	11. Chapter 11: Train Rides, Part Two

_Only one POV this time. Next time will probably have all the rest of the train ride POVs, but we'll see. And I'll be quicker next time. I've been busy._

_**D7- 15- (Jaelyn Annaletto)**_

I'm not fond of either of them: Damien or Decon, though I can tolerate Decon. I suspect Damien is bipolar, because when he stepped on the train he was cool and collected, completely at peace with the whole thing—and oh, my God, does that freak me out, this demeanor of his—and then he was scared and wide-eyed, and now, sitting before me at the dinner table, his fists are clenched and his eyes glaring at his plate.

"Damien," Tracy Mishclaine, who is thankfully out her tree costume, begins formally in a soothing (ish), though squeaky, voice, "are you alright?"

He sends his glare up to her, and she raises an eyebrow. I put my napkin up to my face immediately, having the courtesy not to laugh, though my inner and old self is bursting through, trying to make my fall in a ball of giggles at their interaction despite the terror in my wake. I breathe deeply and set my napkin down, now not about to laugh again.

I have to be an adult. I am always the adult. Ever since my father walked out on our family when I was ten, I've been a bit more mature than my age, and now that I'm fifteen, I act about mid-twenties: all grown up. I had to help my mother provide for the family, which as of then consisted of just her, five-year-old Roy (my little brother, who is now ten), and ten-year-old me.

But then we found out my mother was pregnant, and nine months later, out popped another mouth to feed: precious Layla Annaletto. She's now five, and I love her to death with her chestnut curls like my hair but curlier, but I will admit I was quite spiteful towards her at first, not thinking it was fair I had to work more because my mother and Roy couldn't much to feed the girl. And I was merely ten! It's safe to say that we were _very_ poor back then.

"Uh, is there…more? I mean, how many courses will we get?" Decon asks, almost shyly, staring at the Avoxes bringing us even more trays and platefuls of food—any food we like, whether it be a nice cheesecake or a glob of mashed potatoes, which are some of the few delectable things I recognize. And it's all in such big portions. Of course, it's meant to feed three starving children, a Capitol person, and a mentor, but still.

"We still have one more dinner course, I believe, and then desert," one of our three mentors says. There's the oldest of the three but not of all the living victors—the oldest living victor is sixty-two—at age forty-three: Oakland Howard; then the middle, at age thirty-nine: Ella Acres; and finally the youngest of the three, at age thirty-five: Lillian Middleton. The person who informed Decon of the courses was Oakland.

I stare down at my plate, which has creamy white stuff and mushy blue stuff and a slice of cake with far too much icing, and all I can help but think is: _This isn't _desert_?_

An Avox sets down and unveils a tray that holds a beautiful chicken—or is it turkey?—and my mouth waters. I now direct my staring at this plate of deliciousness, set my not-desert aside, and retrieve a new plate, pulling at the poultry. I then realize how stupid I look, blush slightly, take a knife, and politely cut myself a piece, and then I eat with the humility hanging over me while Tracy Mishclaine stares at me as though I've killed the president.

"So," Lillian begins awkwardly. "There's the matter of who's mentoring who. Obviously a male tribute has to get a female mentor because we were only guessing about the two females." She shrugs, messing around with her food. Her long, straight, placid hair runs to her shoulders and she brushes it away from her small cup of some sort of soup.

"We can go according to age. The oldest mentor gets the oldest tribute, and so on," Ella suggests, looking up and between Oakland and Lillian. Ella's hair is long and dirty blonde, on the verge of being not blonde at all and completely brown, and her eyes are darker than the brownest mud; all-in-all, she is very pretty considering that she's getting rather old for a district citizen since we never live very long and that she has her Games' events lying on her shoulders.

"Good idea," Lillian says softly. "Ah, your ages…?"

I always thought they knew our ages. Perhaps they'll have found out in the Capitol if we never came to his point where we have to tell them.

"Sixteen," Damien mutters.

"Seventeen," Decon states.

I don't realize it's my turn to say my age, and instead I work fervently on my chicken. I look up as utter silence falls over us except for the sound of the train moving—the slight hum of it speeding by on the tracks—and see that everyone is staring at me: eight pairs of eyes, as two Avoxes watch me as well. I blush harder, bite my lip again, and try to smile slightly. I guess I have to laugh at myself to make it…somewhat better.

"Oops," I say, trying to hide my stupid blush. "Um, I'm fifteen."

Lillian smiles. "I'm your mentor, then, dear," she tells me, and I nod.

Oakland is Decon's and Ella is Damien's.

"The recaps should be on soon," Tracy mentions, looking longingly at the car with the TV. Of course, she wants to see what her wad of tributes gets for competition this year. Maybe she thinks we're not too bad. "But let's all finish eating first." She sends a glare-like-but-not-quite-a-glare look up at an Avox. "_Where_ is desert? I asked for it to be brought with the final dinner course."

An Avox sheepishly nods, scurrying wordlessly off to the kitchen.

"Maybe you forgot," I'm tempted to say. "Or maybe she forgot."

But I don't.

The Avox brings desert along. I can't stomach anymore of the food, and not just because I'm full and it's _very _rich, but because I don't think I could keep it down knowing it has caused the Avox girl trouble and maybe even punishment later simply because maybe she forgot while trying to wait on us hand and foot, or perhaps—God forbid!—Tracy _actually_ forgot.

Our escort shuffles us into the car with the flat-screen television. We all sit on the couches, and I am fortunate enough to be quick on my feet so that I can slide easily into the armchair and not have to squeeze next to anyone. I, satisfied by my success, watch the television triumphantly as Tracy turns it on and the image of Ema Losjisey talking about the tributes appears.

"_…'s tributes are looking good, Acinora!_" she exclaims to the other commenter, Acinora Gyrrot.

"_Indeed, they are. Daphne and Adelina will be _quite _the tributes especially, being sisters. Though, Gleam seems hard to beat too,_" Acinora says, grinning widely. She gives a small motion towards the screen. "_Let's show their reactions one more time._"

Three girls end up on the stage, one even being reaped. Adelina and Daphne Summerfield are sisters and seem vicious; Gleam Diode seems deadly as well. All three of them are terrifying, and I know I'm going to be hoping largely that I don't end up in a battle to the death with any of them. They could easily kill me. Then again, I hope I end up in battles with _no Careers._

District Two is awful—in that give-anyone-nightmares way. Stonesia Zhunder is small but freaky.

District Three produces a giant.

District Four, like usual, has Careers, and it also gives us a little girl. District Four is the least enthusiastic Career district, so every once in a while it hands a non-Career off to the Games.

District Five holds a small girl, a big guy, and an empty-looking girl.

District Six brings an idiot and two strong-looking men.

I sniffle when District Seven comes. Not because I am about to cry, but Decon's head whips around to mine, and something devious flickers up in his eyes at the sound of what could be misconstrued as a weakness of mine.

Two boys and a poor insane girl from Eight.

Three average people from Nine; two are female and one is male.

Three fair males from Ten.

Two small girls and a small boy from Eleven. They don't look young; they just look small.

And an average girl from Twelve, but her district partners—a male and a female—look brutal. The brutal girl doesn't even look big, but she has this Career-like brutality about her that scares me.

I don't think I stand a chance. But I'm going to try to. I have to. Thirty-six people all want to go home, and I'm one of them.


	12. Chapter 12: Train Rides, Part Three

_I'm going to move right along into the other chapters. We all get the point, yes? The tributes converse, talk with their mentors, have dinner... I'm glad I got to add Scotty in, though. It's always fun to add in a past tribute because they were the winners of the Games. I should've added Gray into D9's train ride. I'll remember to put him in the morning of some training day.  
_

_**D5- 12- (Allegra Ride)**_

It'd be a big-fat lie if I told a single person that I am not totally, completely terrified.

I guess I'm a liar.

"Are you scared, um, Allegra?" Scotty Nelson asked just a minute ago. She's so nice and so pretty, even though one of her arms was completely chopped off by the villain of her Games: some Career; I think his name was Luck. Or…no, it wasn't luck, but that's what everyone called him. I was only ten during those Games, so I don't quite remember it. The fear might be drowning the memory out as well. I'm not sure. "It's okay if you are. I was."

"I'm not," I had replied in a feeble voice.

Now she smiles kindly at me and stands up, leaving me to sit in the shadows of the dining car, all alone. I can hear the faint sounds of dinner being made—maybe by Avoxes, maybe by actual cooks, I don't know—in the kitchen car just one car away and my heartbeat grows louder and quicker. I can almost hear it… I haven't had as much food as the Capitol serves in…well, ever. And it's supposed to be so good… But what if I see one of the Avoxes mouths for some reason? That would be utterly _disgusting._

Scotty comes back a moment later. "Are you sure? I thought you'd follow me. I probably should have made it clearer for you to follow me. I'm spacey today," she said, tapping her head. I giggle quietly. She grins. "There you go. Do you want something to eat? Dinner isn't for another hour or two."

I nod. "What do they have?"

Scotty turns towards the counter where I'm sitting, but quickly tosses me a short glance. "Everything."

"Oh. Oh…" I look around, swallowing. "Just order me anything, then. I'll end up ordering something like…like bread and miss out on the best stuff."

An Avox comes up to the counter. Her mouth is closed in an odd way. I try to mentally note the way her mouth is closed so I know who is an Avox and who isn't. It would be rude to demand an answer from someone who can't speak. I would feel terrible for doing that, and I already feel terrible enough for being reaped, sent off to die and kill others and… and… I can't bear to think ahead.

"Good thinking," Scotty tells me. I smile internally. "You're smart, Allegra. That's good." She looks up at the Avox again. "Uh, how about a sandwich. Any kind. But a good kind, though." When the Avox nods and turns around to leave, Scotty calls after her, "And thank you, by the way!" She stops, only for what seems a nanosecond, and what almost is a smile flashes on her face before she continues off towards the kitchen.

"You're really nice to her," I comment.

"How would you like to be treated awfully after your tongue was cut off?" she says accusatorily. "They may be the Capitol's prisoners but that doesn't mean they don't deserve to be treated like the human beings they are."

I swallow, realizing I am being a jerk. I sometimes do that: Though usually very aware of how people feel and usually so cautious of preserving their happiness, I tend to get relaxed and trust people, and that's when I start to blurt things out that I may not mean, no matter how rude they are. Something like a bit of shame washes over me, and I suddenly have a new appreciation for something as simple as my tongue.

And my life in general.

**_D8- 17- (Daniel Axton)_**

"Ladies and gentlemen," begins the escort in a too-loud voice, and though she's from the Capitol, it's relatively unaffected by the accent, "we—"

I roll my eyes—_oh, yes, nice touch, being difficult, _I think to myself sarcastically, but the anger and the sarcasm tumbles out anyway—and say, "_Must_ you start everything you say with 'ladies and gentlemen'?"

"Sar…castum?" the girl—that crazy little girl who looks like she used to be pretty, used to be rich, but went insane and suddenly everything…stopped being good—guesses.

"No, it's sar_casm,_" the boy corrects her softly, looking over at her briefly. He then looks immediately away, like it's a crime to look at her or… or—the other possibility makes me _sick_—she's too ugly or crazy to look at. Sure. She's a more then just "a bit off," and she does obviously have some hygiene problems and other problems of the like, but that is no way to treat an innocent girl who might not even know what's going on, even if she is your opponent in a fight to the death.

Protecting my sister all my life has made me like this. Our father is very abusive, specifically towards females. Males he isn't so harsh to, which is why I have enough room to stick up for my sister and mother without getting killed. But there's nothing I can do to make him go away, though if there was I'd do it in a heartbeat, no doubt. For my sister and mother. And because I'm terrified of him and go to sleep hungry or in pain just like they do.

"Don't…don't…" is all I manage to get out in my tight snappy voice to Damon Grey, the boy who I instantaneously don't like because of his attitude—whether on purpose or not—towards the poor little girl who can't help what happens. I blame it on my brotherly instincts to protect girls younger than me, but it's not like I'll be protecting her all the time. That'll waste what little time it takes to protect _myself._

"Don't what?" one of our three mentors asks as she strolls in. It's Alicia's mentor, who smiles at her. Alicia looks like she might hug the mentor, Ellie Hartwell.

I hang my head lightly, a light blush running to my face. Ellie's young, pretty, and I'm a guy; a guy faced with a danger, but a guy anyway. "Nothing," I tell her, smiling slightly. "I meant nothing. I spaced out."

"Don't do that," she reprimands lightly and I nod.

"What were we talking about _originally?_" Cardea Ceres, the escort, huffs, obviously annoyed.

Alicia smiles kindly. "You were about to make a speech and it would be great if we were on a beach so I could rhyme it with peach. He interrupted with sarcasm and you nearly had some sort of spasm while I wondered but could not fathom if where we are going might have a chasm. Where are we going, miss?"

Cardea looks like she might have a spasm again.

"To the Capitol," Ellie replies smoothly, sitting down near Alicia's seat. "Are you alright?"

I scratch my head awkwardly, being on the other side of Ellie. "Alicia…I think…I don't think she's exactly…up to speed. If you know what I mean…do you know what I mean?"

Ellie shakes her head, looking over at me. I sigh and shrug, motioning to Alicia with a small gesture that she can't see and a quick but sure point to my head. Ellie narrows her eyes, almost offended-looking, but nods. I blush ever-so-slightly again in embarrassment for my pathetic motions towards Alicia at her mentor but quickly try to shrug it off: After all, what am I to do if she's crazy? I'll warn her mentor and move on. Simple enough.

And now I'm the bad guy. It's funny how quickly it takes to flip to the other side of the same coin.


	13. Chapter 13: Training Day One

_Training Day Number One.  
_

_Krumr is back._

_*parties*_

**_D12- 18- (Krumr Strongthews)_**

Life is rough. And some people can whine and cry and sob because their life sucks more than others', but while I may not be a perfect example of taking the upper hand—what fun is that?—I embrace it, so doesn't that make me better than them? And yet, then again, who cares? Emotions, the things that weaken the world, are no use to living life and should be disregarded. They should not be disregarded fully, as that would make you completely inhuman, and everyone needs to be a _little_ human.

Just a little.

Training fairs well with me. I like to watch the trainers from a corner, and when they tell me to get to work I smirk and pretend I don't hear them. When this fails, I roll my eyes and give them a careless look, slumping back against the wall lazily. One trainer even approaches me in the middle of the first day of training, his Capitol-corrupted face making his menacing-sounding voice pathetic, so he's basically like any other Capitol citizen.

"Young man—"

"I'd advise you _not_ to call me that," I interrupt coolly, sighing as I stare out at other tributes: Careers obliterate dummies, weaklings flock around other weaklings helplessly or cling onto weapons pitifully, and those who are somewhere in the middle try not to flip out. I see the frightened gleam in their eyes though; I love that gleam. That gleam is my opening to kill them.

"I'd advise you not to backtalk those helping and in charge of you," he retorts, raising an eyebrow. Not bad. I can do better though. "Don't you want to train to prepare yourself for the—"

"Don't need to."

"But certainly you've—"

"I'm bored with you. Screw off," I tell him. I was bored of him from the start, but I figured I might be able to scrape some entertainment from the slab that is his imbecilic, dysfunctional, crappy mind and the ways of its workings; there's no purpose to his existence and I can't make any purpose out of it. I can't even get his tiny little stupid responses to give me something to feed comebacks off of. Hell, he's so idiotic that if I flipped him off, he would probably just stare.

His eyes widen, then narrow. "Young man!" he snaps. "That is _not_—"

Before he can finish, I stand up and walk off.

* * *

**_D4- 13- (Nelly Carter)_**

Walking into the training center is like walking into the world that my greatest nightmares live in: The place screams death and despair, the people are menacing and want to kill me, and the lighting is not bright, perky, and like every other damn Capitol place I've known. Many people tower over me, including the head trainer on a circular stage-like platform—ugh, platform; I believe the word will become one of the scariest—as she talks about training, the rules, and other boring things like that.

Unnecessary.

I want to get my hands on everything around here, and not specifically to train. It's striking me that _Ryan was here._ This training center is my last piece of Ryan besides the mediocre gravestone in the Tributes' Graveyard, a haunting place where all the dead tributes' bodies from over the years reside. Next to it is a smaller cemetery called the Victors' Graveyard, which is even scarier, the tales of insanity circling the world of gravestones and singing in visitors' ears. Both are creepy beyond comprehension and I dare not step in them unless to visit Ryan. I block out the whispers my imagination dreams up to frighten me when I step in there.

My question is: Which cemetery will _I_ end up in?

Really, it's obvious; I am a small, frail (ish) thirteen-year-old with no experience in anything but anger overwhelming me and sending me on a spree of insults. The outturn of my existence as a tribute is a no-brainer, but I'm trying not to be depressing and a downer. Live life to the fullest, right? Well, there is no fullest when you're a tribute. Maybe a halfest or a fourthest, or if you're really unlucky and eigthest. I'm still hoping I'll have a gravestone right next to Ryan's on the other side of the fence—it's lucky his is right on the edge; if I die as a tribute, I can be by him; and if I die as a victor, I can still be by him, on the other side of a fence, but it's all the same to me—meaning on the victors' side of that dreary land of death.

The head trainer dismisses us to train.

As everyone scatters, I scan my eyes around for something so utterly Ryan that I know he touched it last year…unless they replace the weapons. Maybe they do. Of course they do. With my luck, this is the first time in years that they've done this too! Of course. Of course. Of course. There's no way I can ever just be a little sentimental because I miss Ryan, is there? Of course _not._

So maybe a sixteenth of the fullest would be where I am.

I wander over to the planets station gloomily and plop down on the floor, then wince slightly, as I plopped a bit too hard. The trainer and a girl who had also just sat down stares at me a moment; my entrance probably wasn't too normal. Then the trainer lectures us about edible plants and gives us two booklets to go over them with. I study mine and she studies hers, both of us silent.

I look up at her for a moment. Her eyes drill into the book, her dark hair—black, maybe?—falling in her face. "Uh," I get out quietly, and her head jerks up in surprise at me starting conversation. "Um. Back home, in…in District Four, whenever my friends and I have big tests in school, we…we study together. Except Jordan and Ryan—well, not Ryan—and Stacy… We all sort of fight over studying with Sam."

She frowns slightly. "What're you saying?" she asks quietly.

"Maybe we should work together," I say, proud of this restatement compared to my first try at suggesting this, rambling about tests and people the girl has never heard of. "As allies."

"Allies?" she questions, her pale face falling back towards the booklet. She lifts her head, her eyes skillfully scanning the room without a turn of her head. They glue onto something behind me. I turn around and see what she's staring at: a scrawny boy undoubtedly from her district. "I don't know… I've already promised Ry and he's so…shy and only wants one ally…"

I shrug. "I was just wondering. There are others I can ask…"

She looks over at my face, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly like she's seriously considering my offer. I don't know if she's doing this out of courtesy or if she's actually considering it, but either way I appreciate the gesture, my eyes alight with a little hope. I can certainly get further in the arena with an ally, a partner, right? Most likely so. Someone to watch my back, help me out… And perhaps she won't think I'm too insane to ally with.

"Well, sure," she finally tells me, smiling a little. "Rylan—he's not even talking to me, so how are we supposed to be allies?" She pauses. "You said District Four?"

"I don't train," I assure her quickly, shaking my head. I shove my hand out. "I'm Nelly."

The girl shoves her hand out into mine and shakes it back. "I'm Calypso."

"So…where do we start?" I ask, looking down at the book.

She leans over and tells me what she's picked up so far, which is only a couple things, but it's more than scatterbrained me has. Yes, I think an ally was a brilliant idea. If I weren't trying to memorize edible plants, I'd pat myself on the back.

* * *

_**D1- 17- (Daphne Summerfield)**_

Today is the first day that all the Careers assemble together. The first day of training is essential to the world of the Careers: It's basically the day where we size each other up and a leader, without being asked to, steps up. It's usually the District Two male, but he seems a little airheaded. Well, they all seem airheaded, all the District Two males. We'll probably end up under an airhead's reign like any other Career Pack.

Adelina nudges me towards the other Careers. We walk over to them—it's more of a strut, really—and wait for the straggling District Four male to realize that we're all gathering together. He comes over to us and stands next to one of his district partners. The other is a tiny little thing. Useless. We don't want her. For a moment it's silent as we size each other up, except the young District Two female: Stonesia Zhunder.

"Are we all here?" the District Two male asks. He's taking charge, just as I expected.

"Yes," Adelina tells him, counting all of us as she says this. I look down to avoid smiling as she nods with a flirty smile. She told me she'd be flirting with the Career boys. I have Jeff back home, and I don't think he'd appreciate his girlfriend flirting with an airhead like Beck. That was his name, right? The only names I retained were Stonesia Zhunder, Gleam Diode, and Vixen Payne. "I believe we are." After a nearly imperceptible wink, she adds, "Beck," and he melts under the pressure of her soft, sweet, clear voice.

I think she'll kill him.

"Never mind the flirting," Gleam, the other girl from my district, snaps at Adelina. "There's no time for _that._"

"We really shouldn't start off arguing," the straggler from Four tells us. "So don't get into an argument."

Seven heads turn to him.

"We should train," the older girl from Two says, nodding at the boy who mentioned arguing.

I roll my eyes. "Well, we need to group together first," I said, crossing my arms. I bet I'm the smartest and best strategist in this pack.

"Says who?" the District Two male asks, his voice hard and thick, but not overly deep: It's very powerful, is all. "Grouping is for—for the losing Career Packs."

_Good one…_ I think sarcastically. "Fine. Train and die. Who wants to actually be _smart?_"

We end up exchanging names—thankfully, for I didn't pay much attention to names when watching the reaping recaps—and forming mental ideas on all of us. We're quickly organized into a little line in front of the basic knife station that we should all have mastered as we continue to talk. Adelina and I particularly stick together, talking mainly only to each other as we comment on who'll be the first one down and who'll be assigned to guard things, etcetera. We also chat idly with Vixen between turns, as she's in front of us. She chats with Azaleigh when not talking to us.

"…the leader," I pick up on Vixen saying with an eye roll as she turns back to Adelina and me. "Right?"

"Who will be the leader?" I ask, watching Jackson stab the dummy skillfully, though noticeably contritely, and throwing a possibly…_spiteful_ glance at a passing Peacekeeper.

Vixen huffs. "_Beck. _Of course. And he's just going to be totally the _average_ Career Pack leader," she snaps, her voice ever-so obviously spiteful as she glares at Beck. He steps up to the dummy and artfully throws the knife into the dummy's head. Vixen shuts up, turns around, and all I catch from the rest of Azaleigh and Vixen's conversation is bits of whisperings.

"…_annoying. . . . _I bet…go for him. . . .and we're supposed to be…! I know… I know… . . . forget it. But— Forget it!"

And so begins the reign of the One Hundred Fifty-Second Hunger Games' Careers.


	14. Chapter 14: Anger

**This chapter is dedicated to Jammerock2000. Happy birthday, Jam.**

* * *

_This is just a little dinnery sidey chapter I wrote for Jam's birthday because he said he wanted a chapter for his birthday, so it's short. _

_It's also an update chapter. I know I seem to write agonizingly slow, and post short chapters. I get distracted easily. Spring Break is coming up, and most of the people who distract me will be away, and most of the people of the Forum I RP on will still have school... I'm not promising anything, but perhaps we can expect one or two updates next week? One can only hope._

_Also, I really hope this doesn't make me slower, but in about two or three weeks, I'm starting up softball again, and track has been going on, as well as the final dash to the end of school (yay! summer break!), which I'm predicting will bring a lot of homework, if I can base it off the night I wrote this... So I may be getting busier, which means less time for writing, which displeases Wjj. At least it's not five to six hours of activity every night like some people I know. If you take school, sleep, etc., into factor, they have about twenty minutes of free time every night. I could not survive with twenty minutes of Internet and other things I do in my free time on a daily basis. I just couldn't. Maybe on busy nights. But not every day._

_So this is my little happy-birthday/tell-everyone-what's-going-on-_legally_ chapter. We wouldn't want to get **this **story deleted too, would we?_

_Enjoy, everyone!_

* * *

_**D7- 16- (Damien Andrews)**_

Welcome to hell. It's glittery, sparkly, and full of creepy, laughing people who remind me oddly of the dolls my mother kept before she died, which looked like they were coated in makeup with the fanciest hairstyles and the nicest clothes. The buildings are tall and the colors do not balance each other. There are no mediums; all the colors are too bright or two dark. And at the center of hell lives the devil, also known as President Attica Jacobson.

Yes, this is hell.

Others call it the Capitol. I call it what it is.

In the midst of dinner, I think about how awful life is in the Capitol, the place I hate more than anything. I think about how ugly my prep team and stylist and escort is. I think about how agonizingly dull my district partners are and how idiotic my mentors are. All I can think of are all these negatives and everything that could go wrong and how terrible I am and will be and how the mentors' lives cost twenty-three other lives and how if I win, _my_ life will cost twenty others'...

"Damien?" Tracy asks in her Capitol voice. I cringe, looking up, and suddenly everything's okay. Things suck, but it's okay.

"Yes?" I say, almost shyly, scratching my head.

"Ella's been trying to get your attention for at least five minutes," she tells me with a small, helpful smile. I nod and turn to my thirty-nine-year-old mentor Ella Acres.

She swallows down a spoonful of soup and motions to my plate. "Eat," she says when her food is down. "You need energy for training tomorrow." I find myself looking down at the mountainous load of food that has been placed on my plate without my knowing. I nod gratefully and take a small taste of meat. I find that it is good, and eat more. I look up to Ella, and she nods in approval. "Good. Enjoy it while you can. Bulk up as much as Damienly possible for the arena. She smiles a little and I look down at my plate, feeling the stares of three stylists, three mentors, two tributes, and an escort all on me, the one who wasn't eating. Anger boils up in my skin and blood again, but I shove it down and lock it away.

_Calm, Damien... Eat, like Ella said._

I do. And so does Decon and Jae. It's an eerily silent dinner. We've all decided we don't want to train together or share training secrets, so mentors can't talk about training over dinner, and there's not much else to talk about. Nothing anyone wants to mention or bring up, at least. We sit in silence until dinner is over, and I'm happy to go off with Ella and actually engage in conversation, even if it becomes depressing, with someone.

"How was training?" is the first question she asks. We've come to my room. I sit on the edge of my bed and she sits on a chair near the window, which has thick glass that seems impenetrable.

This is easy. _Not so bad_ is what my mouth opens to say, my lips forming the "not," but that's not what I say. Instead, what I spit out is: "Not good."

And then I realize it really didn't go good. I couldn't get my hands on any weapons I prefer to try to train with, I kept running into the Careers, they kept sending me death glares, and I couldn't for the life of me start a fire, which totally and completely embarrassed be. This is what angered me at dinner, I now know, and when Ella looks at me curiously, all of this tumbles out in a rant. I can feel the anger again.

I can't control it this time.

"Oh," Ella says as response. "It was like that for me in my first day too, Damien, but trust me, it'll get better tomorrow."

I narrow my eyes. "How do you know? You don't know anything!" I snarl, standing up and stepping towards my door, away from Ella, like she's a rodent or has a disease. "Nothing!"

"Damien, calm down," Ella orders. I can tell she's trying to be soothing. "Please."

I shake my head. "You're clueless," I snap. "I can't trust you. You'll... You will get me killed! I know it."

Ella sighs and sits back, staring at me. She looks out the thick-glassed window and pulls a cord so the curtain slides up and out of the way of the window, the Capitol's lights flooding into the dimly-lit room. Only a small lamp off in the corner by Ella brightens my room, and it's just so she can flip through some paperwork and questions she's written down, notes she's taken on what strategies we may take. I scowl. Plans to kill me might be in there. I'm useless to her. Why bring me home? Maybe she likes one of the other tributes better.

I storm out of the room and go to the kitchen, grabbing up a roll leftover from dinner as Avoxes lay out the decent leftovers as snacks and take up what we didn't eat on our plates and what looks sort of mashed up or too-eaten from dinner to throw away. I eat the roll angrily, my teeth chomping together violently with each bite as I rip the bread to bread-shreds in my teeth, reducing it to nothingness as I swallow.

The Avoxes stare, but I don't even care. I just sit down and eat at the snacks and extras the Avoxes are setting out. After about ten minutes, I return to my room and sigh, sitting back down at my bed. Ella looks up. "All better?" she asks, to which I nod.

We talk about training until we're both about to fall asleep.


	15. Chapter 15: Training Day Two

_I'm starting the songs before almost every chapter again! Yay. If you haven't heard this song... *dies* I love it. And the movie that it's in a trailer for (The Host) looks really good. So I got the book. Because I cannot for the life of me watch a movie that's based off a book if I haven't read the book first, because if I see the movie first, I will not read the book if it will save my life. I can't. I'm just weird like that, I guess._

_Gray. Yup. He so wasn't...finished, though. I'm still looking for inspiration on an epilogue to I Will Not Bow.  
_

_I'm excited by how quick I updated and how long the chapter is! Granted, I have been writing since midnight and right now it's almost four a.m. But hey. If I could sit down for nearly four hours every night and write for you guys, I would. Sadly, I cannot. And I really, really, really shouldn't have tonight. But I told myself to finish Adelina's, and then go to bed. And then I got an idea for Gray's. And then suddenly I was writing Forrest's. And then I just thought of Nick and my whole brain went "What the hell!" And here you go. Any grammatical or anything errors I have a proper excuse for:  
_

_It's four a.m. I want to update now. And I'm dead-tired. There's no way I'm proofreading tonight. Sorry... But anyway, I UPDATED, WOO. Pardon me while I go curl up with The Wind in the Willows and fall asleep before reading a good, full sentence.  
_

_Now…onto the chapter, yes? I hope you like it._

* * *

**"Radioactive" by Imagine Dragons**

I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones  
Enough to make my systems blow  
Welcome to the new age, to the new age  
Welcome to the new age, to the new age  
Whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive  
Whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive

* * *

**_D9- 19- {Victor/Mentor}- (Gray Hager)_**

I am no longer a tribute. I no longer have to worry about my survival; that is beyond guaranteed. I don't have to worry about Stacy's or my parents' survival; that's guaranteed too. I just wish I didn't have to worry about so many people's continued existence! While I may come off as contradictory to some people when explaining this, I am not. I have one thing to say to those people. Four kind, courteous, helpful words that I will only ever say with the _utmost_ respect are all I want to say. One phrase is all I need.

Shut the hell up.

If you don't know me, where have you been? If you do know me, I have a little bit more advice for you: Stop watching Capitol crap. You should know me though. I am the most recent winner of the Hunger Games. I wasn't even a contender—really, I bet no one ever thought, _Hey, watch out for that Gray Hager kid!_—and yet here I am, eating breakfast with three tributes that depend on me, only one of which can come home. I value all of their lives so much, though.

Throughout my year as a victor, I find that I can contentedly (as content as it gets, that is) spend my life a number of ways depending on the situation. At Capitol events, I am a solemn, quiet, almost shy-seeming victor who does his best to be respectful and only say what is appropriate to be said and only do what is appropriate to be done. At home, in my empty, big Victors' Village house, I am nothing more than a wasted drunkard. When with my family, I try to be as much of the old Gray as ever, but the old Gray will never truly reemerge again, and that saddens my little sister Stacy—which saddens me. And then there's me as a mentor. All I want to do is give one of them another chance at life.

Even still, I find it hard to refuse that alcohol the Avoxes offer. It's so tempting I have to bite my tongue until it's actually bleeding this morning. My nerves are high and I think I might be visibly shaking, but I'm so tired that there's no way to tell. My heart races and I don't think I'm really breathing when I shove my hand forward towards my water. The glass cup is so fragile… As I bring it to my face to take a drink, it shatters over my plate and me. The water soaks me, and I find that all of the other seven people at the table are staring in shock. An Avox rushes to my side with a towel, offering it to me with silent politeness.

I shake my head. Quietly, I tell her, "I'll just go change, thank you. Can you get me…just…any type of alcohol while I'm changing? Anything, please." Her eyes are wide, but she nods and hurries off to get that for me as I return. I brush the broken glass off my lap and guiltily leave it for a waiting Avox. I walk out of the dining room and go to my room, which is much different than what my room was as a tribute.

I had Asher's room.

I change into a new pair of jeans and a new gray t-shirt. Then I go back to the dining room. My spot is tidy, and a nice and opened, empty bottle of beer sits next to a plastic cup full of what used to be in the glass bottle. I sit down in front of the empty place at the table, devoid of anything but the beer, and take a large gulp. Immediately everything's a little better, and I find myself completely downing the beer completely. I wipe my mouth of the wetness left over and sit up straight. "_Well_ then. Who else has had a bad morning?"

The ridiculous escort, Polka Dot, scoffs. "I hardly think this is adequate conversation to be starting with your tributes after you just _mindlessly_—"

I sigh. "Polk, we're never going to agree on anything I do," I say to him, shrugging. "So please…don't start."

Above anything else, I just plainly miss the innocence that Ryan held, that I held, that Stacy still holds… This hits me smack in the face as I'm about to rant more stupid shit to Polka, but I stop short—what's the point? What is the honest point? I've already angered him by calling him "Polk," so what's the point in going further pointlessly? What's the point in _anything_ anymore? What's the purpose? What is Panem, as a human civilization, a post-apocalyptic world of corruptness, striving towards? Domination? We are all that's left.

What's the point of even surviving if you can't live? Why can't we just live simply so everyone can simply live? Why does it all have to be so…dramatic?

"Nelly Carter," I say suddenly. Fiona, Asher, and Aeris look up. Polka is shaking his head. The stylists are whispering as they conspire. "I want you guys to try to get allied with her. At least you, Fiona. Or you, Aeris. One of you at least. Try to, for your dear old mentor, eh?" I smirk a little bit, but only earn blank gazes from my tributes; I honestly didn't expect anything more. I shrug and sigh. "Never mind. But Nelly Carter." I tap my head. "Remember that name."

* * *

_**D10- 16- (Leo Rivers)**_

You know when something gets on your nerves, and it's driving you so crazy that you can't focus on anything, but there's nothing you can do about it so you have to leave it be, like a stray hair on someone's head, or a pile of papers perfectly aligned except one? And all you can think about is straightening that hair, or tidying the stack of papers, or pulling the single but noticeable piece of lint off someone's shirt, but you don't know them, and therefore you can't because it would be awkward.

Take that irritation, and make it a single drop of blood on someone else's dagger when they are training to kill you.

I just want too wipe the blood off, because it's making me so fidgety and nervous; I can't help but look this way and that to make sure no daggers are flying towards me, which would get my blood all over it, and I'd be dead so there would be no way to wipe it off. And that should be the least of my worries, but it isn't. I'd be dead, and my only concern is that I wouldn't be able to wipe the knife that killed me clean.

I'm not even that obsessive over such things; I am just extremely paranoid, and these little pet peeves make paranoia rise in me, and then I can't think straight, or do anything except look at that dagger and stare at that dagger and sit down because that dagger is making me dizzy and making my stomach weak and the next thing I know I'm staggering to the bathroom and throwing up in the toilet.

The taste finally comes into my mouth and the smell in my nose as I come to my senses, and I flush. But the smell and the taste doesn't go away, and I can see the exact contents of what I had for breakfast as it swirls down with the water. I have to step out of the stall to get away from it, but I come to see that I didn't actually make it to the toilet, and in the middle of the floor sits my vomit. I turn away immediately and enter a new stall, feeling what's left of my breakfast and maybe my dinner coming up.

Yesterday, I was so out-of-it and tired and in search of allies that none of this got to me, but now I feel tears starting to come out of my eyes as I lean my head against the wall, feeling miserable. I have a headache, I can't breathe, my chest feels like elephants are walking across it, and I don't even know what I'm crying about. I'm sixteen. I'm a big guy, compared to some of the others that will be going to the arena with me - I shouldn't be crying like some poor twelve-year-old. I wipe away the tears and tell myself they come from sleep-deprivation (I've been staying up far too late; who could sleep?) and the smell.

I leave the stall and go to a water fountain by the door, gulping down more and more water until I'm gasping for breaths because I've gone too long drinking and haven't taken enough breaks to breathe when I swallow. The taste doesn't leave my mouth. I wish I had some sort of flavored drink, like lemonade, tea, apple juice, or grape juice, which are all great and easy to make if you can afford or find the lemons, tea leaves, apples, and grapes, which aren't things you can really find in District Ten.

Now I'm thinking of home. I'm thinking of my mother, and my brother, and my father. My father, who was in an accident working with cattle and went mad a while ago. My brother takes care of him, and my mother and I work, but I can't help but wonder if my brother's working now that I'm gone. If he is, who is taking care of my father? He's in no condition to be alone; his English isn't even understandable, so if he can't speak, how can he be expected to be alone?

I leave the bathroom, the mess left for a janitor.

* * *

**_D3- 17- (Forrest Montgomery)_**

I miss it already: District Three. I remember the factories and the smell and the stereotypical "nerdiness" impressed upon us of which not all of us held, but when you did meet a stereotypical nerd in District Three, you would be stunned at how extraordinarily intelligent they would be. They're unbelievably good at most technological things and could invent a life-size replica of Earth if given the chance, motive, and correct tools.

Neither my friend Carsen Swift was extremely smart nor was I. We were average, at best, but of course he would always rank better than me, because I hold my own distracted level of intelligence that remains the same simply because of how optimistic I tend to get, which brings me into curiousness and I have to see things I want to see and go places I want to go. I am bright; I will give myself that, but no more than the regular District Three seventeen-year-old boy.

I twist my father's ring around my finger as I step up to the fire-making station. The trainer welcomes me, telling me that he was just about to start with these other two, and motions to them. I look over to see a girl from Seven and a boy from Six. If I can remember correctly, the girl's name is Jae, but I am at a loss as to what name the boy holds. He's older than me, though; that, I can tell for a certain fact.

"Thank you," I say kindly to the trainer. My dad has always told me to be respectable and gentlemanly to all.

The trainer shrugs. "No problem. Now…"

He rambles on about how to make the fires, and demonstrates it for us, even. I watch him carefully, closely… I don't want to miss a word he speaks. Every word could be the word that saves my life.

* * *

**_D10- 16- (Nick DiLaurnetis)_**

Today has been a whir, what with training making it fly by. Yesterday's training was slower than a snail slowly squirming its way down a five-mile path because I had absolutely no clue what to do. But now that I do, it's all so much simpler, and the fact that I'm not that bad when it comes to fitness compared to some people helps. Of course, the Careers could still crush me like I was an ant, but still.

I hardly even notice where I'm going as I train from station-to-station, picking out which weapons I absolutely hate, which I almost like, and which I can settle for. The survival stations are packed full with most everyone. I try to only go to the empty or unpopulated stations, and today I'm lucky enough to find myself a seat in the plant identification station. Of course, I have to worm my way past three Careers training together: the girl from Two that's my age and very small compared to the other ones, her male district partner, and a girl from one, but not one of the twins from One. This isn't fun. I don't want them to take any notice of me.

But the most menacing Career of them all stares at me as I walk by, _of course,_ and I just wish they wouldn't kill my on a whim, because I would definitely say something clever and what could be classified as jerky to him, but really, he sort of deserves it. Killing for entertainment—or, rather, watching kids kill for entertainment as well—is not something to be proud of at all, and yet the Careers are even _arrogant _about it.

The training greets me with a warm "Hello."

"Uh, hi," I say weakly, letting out a long breath. I look around at all the books the trainer has gathered for this station. When I look to my right, I see the girl who's also at this station biting her lip. My gaze instinctively is retreated, though I'm not sure why; I guess I just don't want to seem creepy. But she was sort of pretty, with long midnight hair that seems like it can't decide if it wants to be wavy or straight, and eyes that perfectly match. Evening out this darkness is her very pale skin. Maybe on first glance you wouldn't call her pretty, but "striking" is most definitely an applicable word to use on such an occasion as trying to describe this girl.

The trainer runs through all the basics in a timely manner and gestures to his books and booklets and study guides. "Feel free to stay as long as you want to study these," he tells us, and then points to the wall where a large screen and a giant keypad sits. I assume this is a test or something about the plants. Just as I say this, the trainer says, "This sort of summarizes everything, and if you think you're pretty good with the identification, you can try it. If you have any problems or questions, just ask me."

The girl leans to her right to pick up a book somewhat far away from her. She can't reach it, so I stand up and get it for her charmingly. When I hand it to her, she stares at it and takes it slowly. "Thank you. I couldn't reach it," she says quietly in a clear, soft, shy voice. I smile again and get a book for myself out of the four or five piles of five to six books. There's a good twenty or thirty to choose from.

"Hey," I voice after a moment of staring at the covers of other books. The girl looks up for a second, and then at her hands, which are clasped in the fold of her book. "I'm Nick." She nods and unclasps her hands so she can read more without responding. I sigh. "What's your name?" I ask stupidly, falling for her prettiness and having to admit that I kind of like her for it—and then I feel shallow, and I remember I need allies who are willing to gang up against the Careers, not pretty, short, fragile, pale girls like her, as much as I want to. I decide that after this station, I'll stop being stupid and drop it forever.

"Aster," she responds, and redness rises to her pale cheeks. "I mean…Astrid." I look over at her book, and in large, black, bold print under a graph reads "_Aster_ genus."

"Is that a flower book?" I ask conversationally, forgetting myself.

She looks at the cover and nods, her blush fading slightly. " 'Flowers—Classifying and the Importance of Knowing Which are Edible.' " She recites the title for me, keeping her page with her forefinger, and it seems she forgets herself too, momentarily not shy at all as she flips the book over, keeping her finger in her page and reading the description of the book on the back: " 'To truly be successful in any endeavor with plants, you mustn't only know the names but the classifications and whether or not they are edible; it can be lifesaving to any tribute in the Games. So, trainers, mentors, and plant-lovers alike, look no further than here to satisfy your flower book needs.' " She looks up, and then down. She's shy again.

"Uh…I could've just let you read it, huh?" she says. I shrug, smiling kindly at her. "I mean, it's not like you're incapable, obviously, seeing as you've picked that…garden…book." She smiled a little and looks anywhere but my face, hers entirely red as she lets out one, quiet, reluctant-sounding giggle that she was obviously trying so hard to contain but just couldn't. I smile wider as she does this and look away as well.

"I wasn't really paying attention when I chose this, I think…" I scratch my head and look up at her. "So, uh."

She smiles genuinely, placing the book back in a pile next to her neatly and standing up. "I'd better be off. To my ally." I nod. "Goodbye, Nick."

"Bye, Astrid." But she's already walked off.

* * *

_**D1- 17- (Adelina Summerfield)**_

Training has consumed me for so long, ever since I was introduced to it with my sister when we were six. Back then it was mindless training; it was things that required no honest skill with weaponry and no real sense of killing and staying alive and striving for pride. We were just taught that the Games were good and the Capitol was good and all about Panem. We watched the Games every year and were shown recaps of previous years.

Then we turned seven, and we were yearning to fling the weapons around. Knives were my sister's specialty. That's all we were allowed to touch for a while. To be a right and proper good Career, you have to be able to use a knife in some sort of manner and pretty good. Daphne eventually became exemplary, and she started off better than me, so we all knew from the start she'd be a knife-thrower.

Around eight, we were shown to many different assortments of weapons borrowed from the training center or made: cleavers, swords, maces, axes, katanas, and much more. Daphne, naturally, stuck to her knives, but did as she was told when she was ordered to venture to a new weapon. She immediately picked cleavers, and my heart was glued to the mace.

I trained with maces for a long time, or that's how it seemed. It felt like decades, trying to master the way to hold and kill with a mace, and the whole time I was only eight years old. I was a small eight-year-old, and so was my sister. We couldn't take up heavy weaponry, but I did despite everyone's discouragement. Perhaps that's the reason I originally chose it: Everyone told me I couldn't or shouldn't.

Finally I gave up on the mace and took up my true passion, which was the katana. I absolutely love the feeling of my katana in my hand, twirling around as the blade twirls with me and decapitating a dummy's head smoothly and gracefully. Of course, I usually don't actually decapitate it; that would be a waste of dummies. Most of the time the material the dummy is made from is thick enough to withstand my katana's blade's force. At the training center though, I always go for the ones whose heads will actually fall off; it's satisfying.

Daphne nudges me. "Adelina," she says. I look up from my daydreaming over to the swords. "Wakey-wakey...?"

I look over at her and realize my place. I stand up straighter, only to find that we've all separated while I was spacing. I curse a little to myself in my head, for I was excited to mess with Beck's head with major flirting and showing off my skills. The results from this yesterday were phenomenally hilarious; I even caught him staring a bit, which you should _never _do when you're a cocky, flirtatious Career who's flirting with a cocky, flirtatious Career. Showing you're remotely interested in any other way than flirting says that the other Career is closer to winning the flirt battle than you are, and that gives them satisfaction, which adds to their already high level of pride.

"Yeah, sorry," I mutter. "Let's go…do something else. Knives get old, yeah?"

Daphne smirked a little, raising an eyebrow. "Knives and cleavers are my main weapons. If I got bored of them, I would be actually nowhere in training."

I roll my eyes. "Fine, let me rephrase," I request harshly, walking away towards the swords. The sharped-edge katana—the only one I can see over there—invites me closer, and, keeping a cocky smirk and an irresistible strut—_This one's for you, Beck,_ I think—I make it to the swords and snatch up the katana hastily. Practically beaming at the weapon, I remind myself that though it is a lovely reminder of home and riches and the Games and pride, I mustn't forget my place. I snap out of yet another trance and step over to a dummy.

Smoothly, I decapitate the blue, fake person. Swiftly I spin and get ready to slice the sharp, admirably deadly edge into the dummy's heart when I come face to face with Beck. I sigh as though displeased that I was interrupted, and I sort of am. I turn around and shove the katana into the dummy's heart before turning back to Beck, crossing my arms and looking around. I want to make him think I'm looking for something better to do or someone better to talk to.

When I decide it would be find to steal a glance to see if my tricks are working, it's obvious they are: He looks so peeved that I contain a rare girly giggle.

"Beck." I finger the hem of my training shirt.

"Adelina," he says in response, narrowing his eyes slightly. I raise an eyebrow questioningly. "You're good." He points back to the dummy. "Of course, you got the easy dummy." He smirks ever so slightly. I whip around, infuriated to see that I did choose the easy dummy whose fake blue skin is easily cut through. Cursing to myself mentally, I pull out my katana as a cover-up for turning around so quickly. Coming back around, I bring in dangerously close to his face. I hear an almost inaudible "Whoa" come from his unmoving lips.

"Beck Ferrari, you're angering me," I tell him, and even though he is angering me, I throw in a little bit of seductiveness to my stance and my voice. "Don't anger me." My face is emotionless.

"What're you going to do, glitter girl?" He smiles charmingly, ruffling my hair slightly.

I narrow my eyes threateningly and touch my katana to his cheek. I dig it in to his skin slightly before drawing back so a trainer doesn't see. He doesn't flinch nor does he bleed, to my utter disappointment. His gray eyes hold a dusty storm in them, and when I poke the katana at him, the storm clears and his eyes brighten. I huff slightly and involuntarily, for I want him to be angry with me, or if I'm lucky even scared of me. But instead, he looks like he's _curious._

"I. Am. Not. A glitter girl. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to practicing slitting your throat and pretend I see your pretty-boy blood spilled across the arena's floor. If you would kindly step away, it would be much better while I refrain from telling you my exact ideas for the party I'll throw when you're canon sounds." He grins, and this angers me more after my little speech, so I add more. "You idiotic caveman."

"We both know that you don't find me a caveman, darling."

Darling? Since when did it become '_darling_'?


	16. Chapter 16: Training Day Three

_To cl__arify: Jak is__ bipolar._

_And the bloodbath is next, everyone! Unfortunately I lost my list of who gets what, who gets killed, who kills who, who gets a POV, etc. All that fun stuff. But that can easily be rewritten late tonight when I'm bored, too tired to read or write, but want to be productive. I'll just email myself my bloodbath details so I can't lose them this time. And all important interview information (like what scene Krumr makes, because his...Krumrness is just awesomely fun to write about) will be mentioned during the Games. But I hate interviews. So skip over them I shall._

_The final day of training! And private session scores. At the bottom. _

* * *

**"It's Time" by Imagine Dragons**

So this is where you fell  
And I am left to sell  
The path to heaven runs through miles of clouded hell  
Right to the top  
Don't look back

* * *

**_D12- 17- (Carlyn Hansen)_**

I think I've lived with this façade all my life. I've been the sweet, popular girl who's totally likable; and it's much easier to act as this person than it would be to be her, as she is too perfect and too fake. She's a character I've created because I'm bound down to District Twelve with no freedom and nothing but its dull workings and ways; the sentimental culture that's all too confined and close for me; and the emptiness of any joy that there is in a stable environment of freedom. As there is none, you wouldn't expect this joy to appear, but I crave it desperately. I crave the rush of defiance to those who bind my life to its least extent of creativity and independence.

I want the thrill.

While the Games will be not near enough short of hell for my likings, I think, after the first or second day, I will grow used to them—for I am making it that far; I must. I mean, there is such freedom in that that it's laughable compared to the lack thereof we receive in the districts, confined to the nothingness of our basically planned lives and mapped-out careers; confined to our homes and our towns and our people, never to see anything particularly new or creatively interesting, let alone something exciting, while instead we see what we've known and hated all our lives.

Quite honestly, I'd love to live in District Four. It seems so much _freer._ If Four were out of the question, I'd love to walk the mountains of Two, or drift through the forests of Seven; the fields of Eleven are extremely inviting and the glamor of One even appeals to me, though the idiocy of their thickheaded minds does not; and then Nine would not have my back turned to, with the fields and the farming and the warm sun.

In Twelve, our jobs that most Seam people take up—thank God for not being a Seam person, though it wouldn't matter since I'm in the Games—are mining jobs, deep underneath the earth where the sun will never reach and where fresh air is nonexistent, but simply a dream and what the limited miners yearn and long to see and breath and feel; and it's either burning up or freezing cold. I wouldn't know, but I seriously doubt that even fans are down there, let alone heaters if it's cold.

The gloom that resides in the worlds of these helpless miners eats through the districts like hungry termites through wood, spreading until there's nothing left not infected by its sickness and brought down by its darkness. I don't believe our district can ever exist on happiness nor will it ever be again the heart of the rebellion as it had been in old unspeakable Katniss Everdeen's time. We have succumbed to the weight of the Capitol once more and are much less free; the fences are turned on a lot more than they used to be, but not all the time. Hunters still have the ability, if courageous and fearless enough, to slip through it and feed their families fine, fresh meat.

But trading it—well, even the black market's banned that. But there's the gray market, as they call it. It's even more secretive than the black market, which is called the Hob, but supposedly it's the New Hob, and it easily looks like an old _thing_ shop, except when no officials are around, or looking…a squirrel slips over the counter, and oranges slide back, or a big bag of old clothes comes to the back. And cleverly enough, the bag will have clothes in it with meat wrapped in the clothes. The Peacekeepers know, I'm sure, but they pity us and know that we try our hardest so the Capitol doesn't know. As long as they're not in trouble, we're not.

Now, training.

I try to focus as the insect trainer drones on, but my eyes flicker over to my district partner, Krumr, sitting out from training and looking around at all the tribute with this inexplicable gleam in his eye. Maybe it's a bloodthirsty gleam, something of passion for blood and bloodlust. But even if that's not it, I know it's something that frightens the other tributes because of the expressions they take on when they see him watching.

I decide to walk over and sit against the wall with him, and the glare he gives me makes me smile devilishly, for it doesn't scare me in the slightest, but only gives me the knowledge that I've annoyed him.

My voice not at all matching my smile, I sweetly say, "Oh, I'm sorry—was this seat taken, mister?"

"Are you going to leave now easily, ma'am?" he replies, narrowing his eyes and calmly adjusting the way he's sitting so as to not awkwardly scoot away from me, but I only match the way he moves to make him uncomfortable, close enough to him that we can hear each other's breathing and if one movement faltered, one motion strayed, our hands would touch or we would collide. Of course, I balance myself ever-so perfectly and keep my motions strictly on my side of a small but fine line between us so neither of those things happen, and can only hope he's doing the same.

"I don't believe I am."

He spats out viciously, "Go away. Now."

"Oh, make me, darling." I cackle quietly to irk him and my results are glorious. He glares so furiously and with such force that I only find myself falling into more and more fits of laughter that get worse each time, to the point where I have to cover my mouth because I'm laughing too much and people are starting to stare. He's fidgeting and openly moving away from me, cursing under his breath but otherwise is completely rendered speechless, which I'm pretty sure is a feat, if I know Krumr Strongthews well enough.

"I will in the arena when I slice you in three," he snarls, standing up threateningly to tower over me. I stand up as well, and though I don't reach his height, I cross my arms and indignantly glare at his tall form. "And if you don't stop being the most idiotic, blonde, brainless bitch, I will not hesitate to get a weapon and cut you up now."

"I'd like to see you try!" I counter, turning around and walking away with slight arrogance directed towards only my district partner.

I hear him walking after me and know my ears don't lie when he forcefully turns me around to face me. He shoves forward a hand reluctantly, hesitantly. I raise an eyebrow and wait for an explanation for us to shake hands, but he's just letting his hand fall and rolling his eyes, like he's throwing a childish fit for me not shaking his hand. I do love the way I tie him up in a tight little ball until he explodes.

"Allies?" he says with a tight voice, looking anywhere but me, as though he's ashamed to admit he's even thought of this.

I shrug. "Why not. You're adorable."

Krumr glares. "Call me that again and I'll kill you in your sleep."

"I'll take my chances."

* * *

**_D11- 17- (Sage Birr)_**

Fiona Ryder from District Nine, of all people, is who I've chosen as an ally. She's alright. She has fiery hair that leans on the orange side, which I suppose matches the temper that flares up inside her from time to time. I mean, for the most part, she's really cool and all—kind, helpful, et cetera—but sometimes, if I take a step wrong, utter the wrong syllable in a sentence that turns it into something offending, she bursts.

At the knives station, which I'm wary of since the Careers frequently have meet-ups and practices on their knife skills at, she throws considerably well. Her form and grip on the knife, the trainer tells us, is fairly alright—and compared to what he says to mine ("…Needs improvement…"), that's pretty good, really—and I suppose that sort of comes mostly from luck a little from working with scythes in Nine. Well, scythes is what she's briefly mentioned is used in Nine.

"Your turn," she mutters quietly, motioning forward.

"Oh," I say awkwardly, nodding and grabbing a knife. I step up to the dummy, take a breath, and lodge it into its heart. By now, I've just been working on strength whenever she insists we do weaponry training, since it's quite obvious there's no way I can get the knife from point A to point B successfully in the spot that I want it to go. The further I get it in, and the harder it is to get out, counts as a success for me.

When I walk back to Fiona, I request, "Can we do a survival station? The knives station…unnerves me."

"You go ahead. I'll be right there."

I nod and head off to knot tying. At the moment of allying with her, we silently agreed that there was no way in any circumstance in the entirety of ever that we'd ever try to get close; this was strictly business, and if we happen to become somewhat..._friends_ along the way—well, oops. I guess that we would just split up shortly after to avoid the pain of growing attached and losing the other, for only one can win, as everyone knows. We will talk and help one another to survive and not get killed as long as we are agreed to be allies—unless of course one of us goes crazy and-or has the desire to backstab, that is—so it's not like we're isolating one another from ever existing in each other's lives and becoming more than two people throwing food across the arena to keep the other alive.

How that came into my head as an example, I am not sure.

Nonetheless, despite not being close to her…whatsoever, since we did just meet yesterday technically whilst training for the Hunger Games, I don't want to kill her. Then again, I don't want to kill anyone, but there aren't many non-Careers that do want to kill, but we all must and almost all of us will. I expect these Games to be bloody, brutal, long, and torturous, if we can base it on the twelve extra tributes.

Suddenly I'm just wondering—if I didn't get reaped, or I got reaped nest Games or the ones before, would I do better? Would someone else? Really, this is silly, because it is what it is, and there's no changing that fact. These are my Games, the ones I will and must play in. There's no avoiding it, and I shouldn't really even be pondering things like this, but I must, because now that it's in my head, it sort of plagues me. Who would get to live if I weren't in _these_ Games? Me? Someone else? Me _and_ someone else, from two different Games? Oh, how blissful that might be.

I end all of these mindless thoughts when Fiona walks over to me, and with a sigh, I teach her what I've relatively picked up on the trainer telling me, and we're talking of the Games once more.

* * *

**_D7- 17- (Jackson Brothel)_**

The Careers have split again—oh, thank God for that!—and now I am practicing with my partner from Two, and luckily it's not the bratty Stone or the arrogant Beck, but rather the mellow Azaleigh, who actually likes to do the survival stations with me, but I don't hold her back from the weapons she wants to try. When she practices something I'm truly terrible at, I go shoot guns, and watch people around me flinch at the loud noise through a window in the separated but adjoined room to the training center for gun training. I'm the only one in there today.

As we both finish our weapons and a few survival stations together, she decides to head over and join Vixen and Stone—mostly just because it's funny when they're together. They didn't want to be partnered up when we decided it would be best to train with someone else most of the time, if not all, so we could have hunting partners when the pack splits up for a hunt or to search for something. When and if we are to do this, Azaleigh and I will watch each other's backs.

We also choose to go over to these two because Azaleigh knows Stone and I know Vixen. I know Vixen very well, of course, having talked to her family from time to time; perhaps you could even consider it frequently. I know a lot of people in Four. Anyway—and the final reason is that the twins are confined to their own little world, and Beck and Gleam together is just too much arrogance for us.

So off to the fighting girls we go! Azaleigh giggles when she sees Stone turn on Vixen with a deadly glare, seeming to try to worm her way into Vixen's heart and shut it down, to which Vixen heaves a heavy sigh, rolls her eyes, and otherwise totally ignores Stone, unless I'm reading their actions wrong. This is the humorous act they put on that pulled us towards stepping over to them. I think Vixen could take a break from Stone anyway, and Stone could take a break from all of us.

"Hello," Azaleigh greets them conversationally, brushing some of her blood-red bangs under her brunette hair so it's just a red streak and a few glimpses of red peeking out to see what was happening under the normal brown. Of course, her bangs are dyed, and she must be rather rich for her family to be able to afford the Capitol's hair dye. Then again, District Two is the Capitol's favorite, so maybe the price for her is not what it would be for me.

Stone turns around, breathes a sigh of relief at knowing we're here and that she can leave Vixen's side, and crosses her arms. "Can I go?" she asks, throwing a nanosecond-long glance at Vixen, who flips some of her super-red, thick, curly hair behind her shoulder. Her hair is very long, so I suppose it must get in her face a lot, and this isn't just an act of arrogance. Though cocky at times, Vixen is pleasant to be around—or maybe that's just my opinion since I know her.

"No," Aza replies, restraining a grin that I catch flickering in her eyes when I look into them: They're kind of blue. In some lights, though I bet it's just the light because unless you're a Capitolite this is impossible, her eyes give off the slightest purplish tint. I smile when I see her eyes flicker with the satisfied grin at her defiance to Stone's wishes, which will most certainly raise a fiery tantrum Vixen will have to quell. Poor Vixen. "I think you ought to stay—work on some survival stations, yeah? Perhaps we'll gossip, huh, Vix?" Aza giggles girlishly, and Vixen cracks a smile.

"Oh, hell no," Stone snaps furiously, so desperate to get out of this without spreading more tension amongst the Careers that she pleadingly glances around for others to flee off to for the briefest of seconds, and I only catch it because I'm not laughing and distracting myself like the other two; I'm watching her close enough that I even catch a hateful glare for seeing her moment of weakness there.

"Go ahead, Stonesia. Chicken out," Vixen taunts.

Stone's eyes narrow and she shoves Vixen hard. "I said at the reaping—_do not call me Stonesia!_ And then I restated it on day one—_do. Not. Call. Me. Stonesia. _I am Stone."

Aza sighs and pulls me away from the scene. "Out of hand," she mutters when we're out of their earshot, but they're not out of ours, talking so harsh and loudly. "Oops." She looks up at me and brushes her bangs under a load of brown again. "I'm sorry for bringing you into that. I thought it might be entertaining, and we've trained quite a lot, you know. Perhaps we should join in with the twins?"

I shake my head. "Training with you is fine."

She smiles at me, the light dash of freckles sprinkled up her nose making me not even care that the Career Pack is in disrepair. "You, too." And she offers to kindly try out guns, but I insist I kindly try out axes, and we're laughing because we won't agree on whose weapon to train with. So instead we compromise with knot-tying, and I help her, being from Four, and then happily watch her hands move and her eyes light up when she gets a complicated knot without my help.

* * *

**_D10- 17- (Jak Crenshaw)_**

The little range for shooting guns is nice and mostly empty of other tributes. The only other tribute is at the very end, talking to the trainer and glaring at me every time I shoot over the sound of his voice and they keep having to restart their sentences, but this other person has annoyed me before, so this is his payback.

Eventually I decide that shooting has gotten boring and reluctantly exit the range, for I wasn't finished ruining my opponent's day—and last session of training. _A brilliant plan_, my mind compliments, and really it is, messing with them on their last chance to perfect any skill they can possibly scrape up from the bottom of their talentless lives. To do this is to push them a little further away from the line of tributes with a chance and closer to the line of tributes that are doomed; surer to die than the certainty of a starving family to stampede anyone in their way of a free banquet or buffet, these tributes need all the practice they can grab.

Suddenly I feel bad for all I did to that poor tribute; he must have no chance! What if I doomed him? Is it because of me that he'll die, even if I don't kill him? And more frighteningly, what if he carries a grudge over to the arena, and without a conscience, he simply kills me evilly for revenge, in any way he can manage with his little skills and without the skills he needs but lacks thanks to me? What if I'm doomed now, for dooming him?

Oh, and now I'm completely paranoid, fretting and terrifying myself with every imaginably possible "what-if" and "now-because." My mind flutters with these situations, and the possibilities mingle with the impossibilities so greatly that they flux in and out of confusion to the point where it's just a mass of panic and I have no clue in hell what's going to happen to me or anyone or anything.

* * *

**_D6- 17- (Dante Kyanide)_**

After three days of training, I have accomplished three things: I've found myself to be skillful in combat and creating poisons from common things I may find in the arena; I've found out who the Career leader is; and most important, I've learned what will impress him. I must work my way into the group, for revenge if nothing else. But also because though they're foul, despicable beings, who else am I to ally with?

I approach him now, chatting idly with the girl from One, whom I shoot daggers at as I walk towards her and abruptly stop when I'm too close for such dangerous behavior. They're sword training, sparring together, but they've paused for a moment, perhaps to talk over what the other could do better. He's a good leader, I guess, for a jerk, to consider the other Careers' strengths and weaknesses and work on improving the weaknesses.

Once I'm close enough, I stand tall and try to look at powerful and big as my form allows me. Then with the most confident and cocky, yet slightly frightened and awed, voice I can muster, I announce decisively, but with room enough for only the highest of the high to decide completely, "I want to be in the Career group, despite that I'm not from One, Two, or Four," and I expected such glances that they throw me, like I'm a giant idiot and irredeemably will be forevermore. But, having predicted this, I smooth it off to the side and further try to reason with them as calmly, coolly, and certainly as I can. Mostly Beck—the girl from One can and will go to hell.

"I understand that this is entirely unlikely and you'd never have thought to allow such things in a million years, but I could make up for the girl from District Four who's too small to be in it," I say logically, and throw in the smallest shrug a person can do without not moving their shoulders at all, defeating the purpose of a shrug. "And I'm stronger than her, so you'll be gaining more than losing. You won't be losing at all, even."

I see a flick of consideration.

"No way," snaps the District One girl. She sets her sword down and exits the area where you spar. Beck follows agreeably, rolling his eyes. "You're— You're puny! Compared to Beck and _Jackson!_"

"But am I puny compared to…Stonesia?" It takes me a moment to remember her name. "Or, oh, Azaleigh? Even the other girls, really?"

More consideration lights up Beck's eyes, and I'm glad he gets to speak first this time. "Gleam, maybe he has a bit of a point. We could use a guard mouse," he mutters to her, but it's loud enough for me to hear. He cracks a grin, but "Gleam" does not seem amused. "Come on, lighten up, yeah? You're a bit of a tight-ass," and now it's my turn to crack a grin, earning a glare from Gleam and a light, not annoyed or angry, roll of the eyes from Beck.

I raise an eyebrow. "Does this mean I'm in the Careers?"

Beck turns to me, heaving a slight though heavy sigh. "If you get a six or higher in private sessions. Any less and you're dead meat, six—got me?"

I nod, seeming to be extremely grateful, but inside I'm plotting the thousands of ways to slit the three One girls' throats, to tear their insides out, to watch their blood dribble out on the ground and stayed spilled so pleasantly there. I can just see the redness against the green or the white or whatever color the ground is. Suddenly I'm wishing we get a tundra so the perfect white will be contaminated by the perfect red as I throw away their bodies and run right along, not minding to look and see if organs or limbs or anything else totally disgusting has been left.

And maybe I just inhaled too much of my mother and father's morphling as a child, but this is insanely comforting. I find myself dreamily wandering away from the Careers, my brother's screams of death on the television set mingling with what I imagine Gleam and the District One twins' screams to sound like.

* * *

**Private Session scores:**

**D1- (Luxuries)  
**

1. Gleam Diode, 18, female. Megalor9 - **10.**

2. Adelina Summerfield, 17, female. CapitolRules- **8****.**

3. Daphne Summerfield, 17, female. CapitolRules - **9.**

**D2- (Masonry)**

1. Azaleigh Rommel, 16, female. Araka-chan - **9****.**

2. Beck Ferrari, 18, male. WhyNotDream - **10.**

3. Stonesia "Stone" Zhunder, 16, female. XOXOFutureFame - **9.**

**D3- (Technology)**

1. Forrest Montgomery, 17, WhyNotDream -** 6.**

2. Calypso Oswald, 14, female. WhyNotDream -**5.**

3. Rylan "Ry" Ashmore, 14, male. the epic bookworm - **3.**

**D4- (Fishing)**

1. Vixen Payne, 17, female. jblonde123 - **7.**

2. Nelly Carter, 13, female. Bowserboy129 - **6.**

3. Jackson Brothel, 17, male. Araka-chan -**8.**

**D5- (Power) **

1. Anya Saitov, 18, female. the epic bookworm - **6.**

2. Allegra Ride, 12, female. WhyNotDream - **4.**

3. Tenne Bradhe, 18, male. BlueYoshGuy - **7.**

**D6- (Transportation)**

1. Dante Kyanide, 17, male. Megalor9 - **6.**

2. Cade Allens, 17, male. bijtjen - **7.**

3. Phoenix Grant, 18, male. the epic bookworm -**5.**

**D7- (Lumber)**

1. Decon Crow, 17, male. Bowserboy129 - **7.**

2. Jaelyn "Jae" Nicole Analetto, 15, female. SpunkyFun -** 6.**

3. Damien Andrews, 16, male. Jammerock2000 - **7.**

**D8- (Textiles)**

1. Damon Grey, 18, male. sportygirl123 - **6.****  
**

2. Dan Axton, 17, male. Jammerock2000 - **7.**

3. Alicia Ludwig, 13, female. the epic bookworm - **2.**

**D9- (Grain)**

1. Asher Lightwood, 17, male. Rikachan101 - **7.**

2. Aeris Lockhart, 15, female. Rikachan101 - **7.**

3. Fiona Ryder, 17, female. sportygirl123 - **6.****  
**

**D10- (Livestock)**

1. Nick DiLaurnetis, 16, male. CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal - **8.**

2. Jak Crenshaw, 17, male. Jammerock2000 - **7.**

3. Leo Rivers, 16, male. WhyNotDream - **7.**

**D11- (Agriculture)**

1. Skylar Mitchell, 14, female. Jammerock2000 - **4.**

2. Kayla Baker, 16, female. Jammerock2000 - **7.**

3. Sage Birr, 17, male. the epic bookworm - **5.**

**D12- (Mining)**

1. Krumr Strongthews, 18, male. CapitolRules - **10.**

2. Carlyn Hansen, 17, female. CapitolRules - **7.**

3. Astrid Levine, 15/16, female. CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal - **6.**


	17. Chapter 17: Bloodbath, Part One

_Heeeyy. I was going to finish or at least write Beck's POV before posting this but I just can't. It'll be a two-parter._

_Anyway, on a different note, we're all Hunger Games fans here, obviously._

_So I advise you, now, before reading the chapter if you need, **to watch the Catching Fire trailer.**_

_I will admit to going a bit insane immediately after watching. NOVEMBER WILL KILL ME. Catching Fire, the Doctor Who fiftieth anniversary... Gah.  
_

* * *

Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father,  
Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers,  
Leave all your love and your longing behind,  
You can't carry it with you if you want to survive.

The dog days are over,  
The dog days are done,  
Can you hear the horses?  
'Cause here they come.

**"Dog Days Are Over" by Florence and the Machine**

* * *

**_D1- 18- (Gleam Diode)_**

I am suspended for just a moment as the plate rises from the Launch Room to the arena. That's, at least, what I'm sure all the other Careers are feeling, ringed around me on their platforms, coming higher and higher… Anticipation, adrenaline, and anxiousness course through my waiting mind. My heart pumps quickly as I set myself up to run.

Light floods my vision, though it's slightly less bright than I expected, like something's obstructing the sun from my view. As soon as my eyes fully adjust—and it doesn't take long—I see what's obstructing the sun: Around the thirty-six of us are mountains, high and low, rocky and steep, safe and dangerous. We're in a valley between two of them, and quite a large one too. The Cornucopia is perfectly in the center.

A sheath of knives waits for me so closely, and I can't fight back the smirk, only to find that the girl next to me—she's small, frail; I can take her easily—is eying them as well. While I can kill her without so much as lifting a finger, it still irks me that they're closer to her, and all it would take was one false step and she'd have them before me, thereby making me defenseless until I can sprint to my next choice in weaponry.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the One Hundred Fifty-second Annual Hunger Games begin!"

_What a mouthful_ is the only thing that comes to mind.

I get myself into a running stance, my eyes quickly scanning over the tributes near me, sizing them up and trying to put names, ages, districts, and training scores to meaningless faces. For a few of them I can. The ones that will actually be somewhat of competition, that is, are the ones I can remember. But I know focus is essential, so I only dwell on these silly thoughts for a moment. It's about eight seconds, for when I am gazing determinedly back at the sheath that must be mine, the announcer of the Games, Acinora Gyrrot, is saying, "Fifty-two."

And then it's to fifty-one, and fifty, and that's how many beats my heart is thumping every second, it seems.

I then experience the longest sixty seconds of my life. I think Acinora purposely says the numbers with the utmost slowness and caution to torture us tributes and bring suspense to the watchers in the districts and the Capitol, for she draws out each number unnecessarily. "Foooorrrtyyy-siiiix… Foooorrrtyyyy-fiiiive…"

_Just get on with it!_ I scream internally.

Impatience is getting the best of me. By the time we reach the twenty-second mark, I'm feeling like I've been standing here for…forty seconds. I really must just be letting the impatience get the best of me, because it only feels like the time we've been standing here. It's just my anxiousness and excitement that prolongs each syllable; just my thoughts planning out my course to get weapons that makes each second momentarily feel like five.

"Twelve."

The twelve thoroughly excites me. I feel like one of the silly, stereotypical, dumb, blonde, ditzy girls from my district for once, though I don't care right now as I perfect my running stance, which was ruined around the agonizing fifty-four mark. I lasted six seconds in ideal patience, ready for the Games. Even so, I will still do wonderfully, I know.

"Three. Two."

Suspended silence. This time I'm not imagining it. A bird tweets overhead. I don't bother look up to see it; I must stay focused. I feel like I might fall over onto the ground because my legs are so ready to run that it's hard to contain the longing to push them harder and harder until I find myself snatching up my knives at the Cornucopia.

"One."

The gong rings. As soon as it does, I'm off my platform, leaping forward—not literally—and sprinting faster than I ever have in my lifetime to get those knives. The girl next to me has already fled the path to the sheath, and I smirk when they're in my hands, ready to be thrown. I slip one out of the sheath and look around, ready, ready, ready. Everything's ready. Everything's waiting.

I wasn't the first one to the Cornucopia—and while this disappoints me, it really doesn't matter—but I was one of the first handfuls. Adelina, I believe, was the first one to make it. She has a katana in her hands. Stone was after Adelina, and then Beck. The girl from Nine—one of them—arrived about when I did, racing up to the Cornucopia.

Arrival time does not matter; all that matters is the kill. The kills.

A girl with dark hair that may be from Twelve—I'm not sure—comes into my vision. I raise my knife that I've taken from the sheath and throw it at her. Unfortunately, she sees this coming and turns away, but my knife is too fast for her to completely dodge it, so it hits her calf. She turns and runs, pulling it out in one quick movement she hadn't steeled herself for, but the adrenaline keeps her going, I bet, as she flees with quick speed, though she's considerably slower than she had been when she sprinted impressively and arrived at the Cornucopia not long _at all_ after I did. And now she also has a limp. I think I've done well enough.

* * *

**_D3- 14- (Calypso Oswald)_**

Nelly and I are together with Allegra and Skylar, our allies from Five and Eleven. We wait anxiously for Kayla to hurry back with two backpacks, just as she promised, and some weapons. Nelly already has a machete that she managed to pick up. I try to confiscate it from her, but she's done well. A boy—about eighteen, maybe—even came up to us to kill us, and Nelly went psycho and stabbed him brutally in the arm. Once that was over, he willingly ran away, afraid.

"What if she doesn't come back?" Skylar asks worriedly. I can't see Kayla right now, and that scares me. She's the oldest out of all of us. She's supposed to help us. And maybe even protect us. But I know better than to get close to anyone. Still, it's…I don't know, instinct. I think it is instinct to cling to Kayla and silently beg her to keep me safe.

I give Skylar an "it's-okay" look, but what comes out of my mouth is "Kayla's…older."

Nelly gives me a look, and I roll my eyes. She giggles and hops forward with her machete as another boy rushes towards us. She narrows her eyes and the boy's eyes widen, but I recognize him and smile. "No! Nelly!" I exclaimed, smiling at the boy with glee that he's alive. I know him, and that'll be nice if the others will let him join the alliance.

She doesn't let her weapon fall, but looks over at me questioningly. "What?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Cal!" Allegra exclaims indignantly, but she's shielding her eyes, not wanting to see the kill. The boy looks at me like "What—the—hell?" I giggle. "You're _giggling?_" Allegra snaps.

We're all far enough away from the Cornucopia, having run from it, that standing here idly isn't as dangerous as you might think. Mostly hidden by the mountains that hold the weirdest of things if you look up, I'm still so very extremely fearful, but Kayla says that if we run and stay here, we'd be safer until she came to get us. So I trust our hiding spot.

Nelly turns her attention back to the boy.

"No!" I screech as softly but forcefully as I can. "That's Rylan! From my district!"

Ry waves.

Nelly tentatively steps away from Ry with her big, scary machete, and he visibly relaxes, breathing an audible sigh of relief. I smile at him slightly, motioning him over to us, but he shakes his head and steps away. "I can't—I don't…want—" He bites his lip. "I mean—you see, what I mean is—I don't _do_…allies." Ry scratches his head shyly.

Nelly lifts her machete again.

"Let him go," I command.

Nelly glares at me. "Hey! When did you become the leader?" she asks.

"There _is_ no leader," Skylar insists peacefully, her eyes glued to the Cornucopia.

Allegra bites her lip. I step forward towards Ry, to which Nelly gets angry at, drops the machete, and comes at me. Shoving me, she angrily says, "Maybe I want Jackson as an ally! Does that mean we'll take him? No. So no Rylan. He's the enemy." I turn on her and shove her back. Allegra sighs, frustrated, and pushes us apart.

"No more!" she cries, much too loudly.

Skylar, Nelly, Ry, and I all look at her like she's just done the stupidest thing in all of time—and she has. We all hiss under our breaths for her to hush, but none of us move from our spots. We're frozen. Allegra is actually shaking, her face very, very, very pale. I hold my breath. Movement returns to my muscles and I step back, pulling Allegra by the shirt. She stumbles along with me, but it's too late. Our only chance is to—

"Run!" Nelly screams, turning around and doing exactly that. I turn too and go fast. A small knife whizzes by my face, bringing tears to my eyes. That's how scared I am in that moment, as the knife is so close. I really think it will hit me, but it doesn't. Still, a tear falls down my cheek, against my will. I wipe my eyes and sniffle pathetically, opening my mouth so I breathe better than the little air I'm gaining in through my nose.

I look back.

_Ry!_ My whole system aches in the pain of seeing his dead body, a knife in his chest with the Career we're all terrified of gleefully sprinting off, back to the bloodbath. When I know she's not coming back, I stop running completely. Skylar stops with me, but it takes a second for the other two to stop with us. When they do, they check to see that the Career is, in fact, far enough away that we're safe.

"I was supposed to be his ally," I say numbly.

Allegra pats my back. "I'm sorry," she whispers, sighing. "We should go find Kayla."

"No!" I protest, alert again and turning to her. "We can't! What if you all die too?"

Nelly's lips purse. She slides her machete into its nice space on her belt. The tribute uniforms are average, made for sunny, warm days. It's simply light brown, khaki-colored pants that go just below our knees and fit comfortably for running and moving around. The shirt is a sky blue and made of soft fabric. The sleeves are short. And there's a light gray jacket too that I have tied around my waist. The shoes are black tennis shoes. I like them.

"Cal," Allegra says comfortingly. For a twelve-year-old that's usually such a…a _girl_, she's really not annoying or anything, but kind and sweet. "I'm sorry about Rylan. We have to find Kayla for Skylar, and then we'll be off."

I heave a sigh and look around. I'm scared. That's why I'm so weird and emotional and breathing is really hard right now: I'm super scared. I don't want to die and I don't want to witness anyone else's death and I don't want to kill anyone. I just want to go home and sit in my dad's lap and rest my head on his shoulder and listen to him tell me I'm a good girl and a good daughter and everything's always going to be alright with him like he did when I had nightmares when I was four or five.

Skylar nods vigorously. I can see the terror in her eyes too. Kayla was her friend back in District Eleven, which really sucks for them, I'm assuming. At least they're not sisters. The twins from One must be idiots; did they really think that one victor plus one twin equaled one victor? It doesn't work that way. One of them has to die. Still, I can't help but feel a little bad about it.

"Let's go," I mumble.

"Good girl," Nelly says, smirking. I roll my eyes at her. "No matter how much I get on your nerves, we were allies first. You've got to love me." She smirks more.

"Actually…Kayla and I were allies first," Skylar mumbles, sniffling.

"Right," Nelly says, shrugging. "Let's go."

Nelly leads, having the machete. Allegra and I are elected to stay back and wait halfway between our hiding spot and the Cornucopia for Kayla just in case, but Skylar and Nelly delve further in, searching fervently for Skylar's friend and our protector with our supplies. I watch with terrified eyes as the scene unfolds, everyone's weapons clashing and everyone shrieking out in pain and with their scary battle cries. Blood is shed. A lot of it is. People with wounds limp away, and some miraculously make it unharmed. Impressively as well, considering that the Careers are in their waiting for their prey. A group of three large boys go at one Career viciously. I watch as one is struck with a knife and the group scurries away. I guiltily imagine them as dogs who've been scolded, running away from their master, whimpering.

Allegra and I have to look down at the ground. Neither of us can watch. I don't really know how Nelly and Skylar had the guts to actually venture into it, while we're out here pathetically wishing that we could be anywhere else. I mean, I know how Nelly did. She's insane, that's how. But Skylar? She's perfectly normal, so I'd expect her to be cowering out here with Allegra and me.

"I'm kind of scared," Allegra admits. I know she's scared, and it's obvious she's more than just a little. But still, I accept the confession. I am scared too, but I don't want to say it aloud. I could never say it out loud, so I take her saying this almost as an act of courage that she doesn't even know she's committing. Respect for this short little girl with the fiery hair and emerald eyes and the freckled splattered across her face fills me, and I'm glad to have her as an ally.

"I know," I tell her, patting her back lightly. I don't have the bravery to admit that I, too, am scared. Terrified. So much so that I think if one more thing happens to set me off, I will curl up into a small ball and sit there. And whenever someone approaches me, I will scream my little brown-haired head off so shrilly that they have to walk away or their eardrums will quite literally shatter into millions of impossible little pieces.

It's nice to say that, even in thought.

I spot Nelly as she hits a large boy with her machete, but he has a big knife. He staggers back in surprise that Nelly could do this. She lets out a scream and starts to go for him again. It's now that I realize that her scream that I heard since she's somewhat close is because he got her with his large knife. A few heads turn briefly to them, but everyone has to focus back on their own fight. I cower back when I realize that the bloodbath has thinned enough that people could notice Nelly. This means they could notice Allegra and me.

Kayla must hear Nelly's screech, because she comes up behind the boy, shoving a knife in his back. I now see Skylar's relieved face sprinting back towards me and even attempt the ghost of a smile in relief that my alliance is okay, though my district partner is not. I don't know where Forrest is. I can't worry about him; we're not allies. I should be worrying about me, mostly, and then in second place come all of my allies.

"Come on, we need to start running," I mutter to Allegra under my breath, like whispering will help anything.

"No, we have to wait for them." I know that by "them" she means the rest of the alliance.

I shrug.

We sit there for a moment. I try not to look at the bloody gash in Kayla's left arm and the way she's limping and how there's blood flowing down her right leg. I try not to see how she keeps spitting as she's running and there's a noticeable tint of redness when she does so. I try to only focus on the two backpacks on her back and the canteen around her neck. I try to only see the two sickles in her hand, even though they're both bloody.

She showed me what sickles were. They're her weapons, she says. She learned how to use them when working in the fields of her home district. She never told me how she used them, but it kind of scares me that people in District Eleven use things considered weapons in the Hunger Games with their job: agriculture. Do they slaughter dandelions? Do they decapitate tulips?

Actually, that would be funny if I'd thought of it under other circumstances.

* * *

**_D5- 18- (Anya Saitov)_**

The bloodbath is finally here, and it's vicious. Of course, I expected no less than the constant bloodshed and the search for something to survive on swirling around me chaotically, and I've seen bloodbaths before on television back home. They tend to be gruesome and gory, nothing young eyes should see. But this country has raised young eyes to see this, and so they will.

Anyway, I guess I just never pictured it like this. I never really picture the knife that killed that boy, or the bow that shot the arrow into that girl's face. I only picture the afterimages, the glimpses of the dead and the fallen; I only saw the wounds and the blood spilled because of these wounds. To see what causes these things wakes me up. I grip my sword tightly. It's short and light: perfect for me.

Perfect for battle.

Cade stands next to me, eying a machete but completely weaponless. I suppose "stands next to me" wouldn't be appropriate. What would be is, rather, "Cade runs like hell next to me." We're running towards that machete he needs. The machete he wants. The one we need. If he's going to be my ally, he's not going to be defenseless. If ever he's found defenseless by me, he's out.

We decided that he should be my ally, for the benefit, two days ago, at the last day of training. Working with the feel and the motion of my sword like I liked to do in the training center, I didn't notice that someone else was trying out the swords. We ended up sparring a bit and talking afterwards about stance. Arrogant comments were, naturally, made, and we found ourselves talking over the sparring experience at a survival station. When it could be seen that we were exact equals at this station, we thought it might be beneficial to help each other out in the arena for the first week.

And now we're running to the machete.

"Anya," he says, sliding away from a tribute in a way that I have to follow his movements, "grab a backpack and go out to the mountains."

"Why?" I ask, looking over at him briefly with a raised eyebrow. "Don't be playing hero on me. I will kill you myself if that's what you're trying to do."

"No," he pants in protest. "I want you to scout out the mountains, find a good path to take through a valley or something. To get past them."

"Cade," I reason with him, "we may as well just—"

"You are quite honestly getting on my nerves with all this nonsense. Leave your pride be and save your life. I will be right there with my machete," he snaps, elbowing me.

I pause. "I'm giving you fifteen minutes."

Before a useless temper flares up, I veer off away from him.

I catch a glimpse of a large boy running at him. It's the one who idiotically flipped the interviewer off last night in interviews. He's going to die, for sure, since he openly expresses his utter hate for the Capitol and each and everyone one of its citizens. The severest hate he points towards the president. Though stupid, he's vicious, I can tell.

His bow rises when he abruptly stops running, an arrow already knocked. I watch for a moment before I have to start running again, but I make sure that if I turn my head I can see the whole scene, running slowly. I try to stay alert too, but I'm pretty much doomed if a tribute is good at surprise attacks and spots me, looking for the kill. Basically, any Career could easily strike me down.

The arrow flies into Cade's back. He collapses, inches—literally—from the machete. The boy rushes at him and lodges his axe into his neck. I look away, but the image of Cade's decapitated head rolling away from his body is seared into my mind. No guilt comes to me. Instead sickness bubbles. I just _talked_ to him—and now his head from which he talked back to me is no longer connected.

I shudder as I run away, no longer restricted to waiting for him. I still follow his commands: "scout out the mountains, find a good path to take through a valley." He was pretty smart.

* * *

**_D3- 17- (Forrest Montgomery)_**

I've snatched up a backpack relatively close to me and darted off as fast as I possibly can. I'm pretty fast, I guess, so this is pretty quick. Unfortunately, I grabbed up an empty canteen and am easily dehydrated. My throat hurts when I open my mouth because of the air streaming into it, drying out my throat. I can't close my mouth though because not enough air comes in my nose.

Once concealed by the mountain, I sit down and breathe deeply for a break. I look down at my canteen resentfully. I've probably ran half a mile now, and I guess I'm not unbearably thirsty, but my breath has run out. I'm not made for long treks. I'm made for sprinting fast and sprinting hard until my legs give out from underneath me.

My legs have given out.

I'm not sure what to do anymore. I don't know what's beyond these mountains. I just know I have to keep moving.

* * *

**_D12- 18- (Krumr Strongthews)_**

Carlyn and I scout out the edge of the Cornucopia, watching as the weaklings flee out to the mountains. The ones that idiotically head in our direction get a nice wound from my knife that Carlyn jabs at people. I need to head into the bloodbath to get me a bow and an axe, as well as supplies and a knife for Carlyn, but all moments seem inopportune. I want to go unnoticed, so that when I retrieve my weaponry I can quickly turn and shoot people down.

It is pleasure no matter what weapon I use, but I want the cruel, "scary" weapons for death. I let Carlyn inflict the wounds she can. She's good, honestly. Quick with her motions; smart. She only lunges at the ones she can manage to hurt. She shies away, though not with cowardice, from those she shouldn't attack. She still stands brave, tall, and menacing next to me despite her shortness and her small size even when she misses or her prey gets away.

Once she lunges forward to someone too big, and doesn't pull away quickly enough. The male's hand flies around her throat. I recognize him as the male from Two. By now it's pretty late in the bloodbath. It's thinned considerably, whether from the deaths—I don't feel like counting the bodies in the chaos—or from people running away. The supplies are still ample, which I am glad for, and a black bow is in the center. An axe is visible from my viewpoint, as well as a knife and a few decent packs. I just have to get in there quick…

But this male interrupts. His other hand goes around my ally's throat and he lifts her off the ground. Her face in red and she's squirming madly. She yells my name, but as her lungs are starving, it sounds like she's screaming, "Crumb! Crumb!" I can't just watch this! I can't watch this bastard suck the life out of her. She's my ally. She's useful. His life is worthless, a burden to the world. I hate him. So much.

"You had better get off her!" I shout angrily. Gruffly. Stepping closer to Two, I pick up the knife Carlyn dropped when he picked her up. "Now."

"Says who?" he snaps deeply, his voice cold and vicious.

I'm aware now that I don't have my axe, and curse under my breath, not loud enough for him to know I even spoke unless he's watching my lips for the slightest motions, which I doubt he is. I estimate how long it would take me to get to the axe, how much life she'd have left in her. I can't throw it; I'm used to pickaxes back in Twelve from working in the mines. But…with a bow… I'm accustomed to a bow. Rarely, but occasionally, I go out in the woods to hunt. I've gone out enough that my aim is fine.

I don't think she'll make it… I have to try.

"Crumb…" Her voice is pathetic.

I don't even murmur a threat. I don't have time. Instead, I sprint off as fast as I can. Faster than I've ever run. I dive into the Cornucopia, Carlyn's life drawing me further. I can only hope he continues to strangle her. I can only hope he doesn't tighten his grip any further or break her neck… _Long and slow,_ I hope for silently. _Make it a long, slow, torturous death. Make him stay there and taunt her with the fact that I "abandoned" her. Make her sad. _

As if she could hear me, I weakly think, _Stay alive_, and the voice in my head echoing my thoughts is as weak as hers was when I ran off to get weapons.

I know my plan of action. I must get to the bow, and before I get to any of the other weapons—they don't matter until Two is dead and Carlyn is safe—I will shoot him. I will grab our other supplies and go to her. If she's too weak to move, I will carry her to safety. We will kill when she's rested. And we'll continue through the Games. I've decided that anyone who hurts her, or even touches her, if they have no intentions to harm her or not, will be killed brutally: even more brutally than any of the other foul beings we cross.

I don't seem to realize that only one of us can win. Me or her. Me or her.

That's a problem for later, when I actually realize it.

I have to dodge and duck away from many fights, sidestepping tributes and hopping away from ones that seem to want to fight. Shoving them down, yelling at them, et cetera. Bow, Carlyn, run. Bow, Carlyn, run. No distractions. I propel my feet faster. So fast that I almost find myself tripping and have to slow down at bit. I was a fair distance from the mouth of the Cornucopia, seeing as it was a large Cornucopia this year, and the obstacles like fighting tributes, discarded packs, and dead bodies keep me from reaching the mouth of the horn.

When I finally do, I have to throw the sheath over my shoulder and sprint back to a close enough spot, knocking my arrow.

It flies. And it hits Two's chest.

This devastates me.

His back was facing the Cornucopia. He wasn't going to move until he was sure she was dead or beyond saving, I'm sure, and the fact that he's turned, with no Carlyn in his hands, hurts me deeply. She's gone, she's dead, and I failed. There's nothing to fix this, nothing to repair what I did wrong. A pit wells up in me but quickly slips away. I do not feel for death. I will try to save her though. And the sight of Two's dead body is a pleasure. A larger pleasure than any. I find myself openly laughing at him and his fail that seems to not cancel out mine, but make it better at least.

People stare. I glare.

I don't even care! I don't fucking care. Justice is a lie. There's no injustice, either, because something cannot exist without an alternate force to balance it. If there was no justice, injustice would be all behavior, so why would there be a word for the two forces? Yet there is, so I stupidly use the stupid phrase. Justice. It's a sick, twisted, morbid lie—and the fact that this is _my_ opinion is saying something, since _I_ am sick, twisted, and morbid.

I rush over to Carlyn, passing Two's body and spitting on the corpse who, when living, was disgraceful to even the pitiful remains of humanity. I will try to save her, if possible, and then get my things.

She's gasping on the ground.

My eyes widen. That's the only reaction I can manage for a moment as her hand reaches up to me and grasps onto my shirt, pulling her up. She soon falls back down, pathetic in the midst of me. I let out a short breath and another quick laugh and whisper, "I'll be back. Then we'll go. Don't you go anywhere. I don't want to be losing you. I'll be right back, just after I get all our stuff, and we'll talk then, got me?"

She nods.

I stand up and walk casually to the bloodbath, though with swagger. Overconfidence. I don't care that this is weakness, in this moment. My ally's alive. I don't realize it—there's a lot I don't realize today—but this is the same as: My world is not broken. My small, sad world. It's not sad like the emotion, but sad as in pitiful. My world consists of anger, violence, Carlyn, and me. That's all. And that's how it will probably stay for a long time.

With my bow slung over my shoulder and my sheath slung on my back, I edge to the axe—which I want most—and see a boy seemingly running right at the packs I want. Like hell will I let him have my packs, so I run at him, fast but not as fast as I ran for Carlyn. I raise my bow and knock an arrow. When his back turns to me, looking back at something or someone for a fleeting second, I let the positioned arrow fly at him. I swiftly pick the axe up and run at the boy as he collapses.

He opens his mouth as I near him to say something. I cut him off as I plunge my weapon down on his neck, decapitating him. His face is frozen in that moment, that openmouthed expression like he's still about to speak to me. His blood gushes out. It's interesting to see, at first, its blueness, changing very quickly to the normal red tint as it hits the oxygen outside in the air, away from his body.

I find it interesting. Something's definitely wrong.

I saunter over to the two packs—one smaller than the other—and sling them over my shoulder. Then I pick up two knives and turn as a boy's knife comes at me. "Oh, you idiot," I murmur, knocking my bow. His eyes widen dramatically and he scrambles away from me. I let him go simply because I know I need to go protect Carlyn. If she weren't my ally, I'd quickly let the arrow fly. Arrows are not limitless here either, like they are in the training center or at home it the woods where I can make more.

Then I walk back to Carlyn, who's standing up. She rubs her forehead with one hand and has her hand at her side with the other. I hand her a pack, and she uses the hand she was rubbing her forehead with to sling her backpack onto her back. She takes the knife I hand to her graciously. I open my pack and put my axe and knife in—it's a rather big pack—so I don't have to carry it. I carry my bow in my hand and my quiver over my shoulder.

We start to walk. I eye her discomfort and the hand she seems to refuse to take off her side. She moves to the other side of me, trying to be casual, so I can't really see her side. I start to escalate our speed to a run, and she tries to too, but then she drops behind with a wince and a whimper. I stop with her and look back at the bloodbath. We're not far enough away. We need to get away before it ends. I can easily fight off the pansies that call themselves Careers, but Carlyn cannot. She's vicious but small.

"What's wrong?" I ask, walking now to keep us going.

"My…side," she groans, pulling her hand away. It's red. I hadn't been paying close enough attention. I go to the other side of her and now see she has a knife wound soaked in blood. She looked up at me helplessly. She's walking, but it's obvious her side hurts. "Two—he stabbed me, before I… I…" She takes a deep breath. "Oh, it hurts, Krumr. Did you get…like…a medical thing? Or _something?_"

"I don't know. I can check when we stop, but we've got to keep going…" I tell her. She throws me a pained look, and I look into my bag, continuing to walk. In it I don't find much at all for this purpose. Canteen, sticklike thing, rope, pouch… Tissues. All I can think after I find the pointless package of _tissues_ is: _Are the Capitols stupider than what even _I_ think?_ It seems impossible, but they're damn stupid.

But I must be damn smart, because I know how to help her.

With tissues.


	18. Chapter 18: Bloodbath, Part Two

_Yeah, short chapter. I wanted to cover these deaths.  
_

_Anyway - Announcement: I will now accept tributes for my next story. There will be forty-eight. Two males and two females of each district. There will be eight teams of six tributes, and whoever is alive from the winning team at the end will be allowed to go home as victor, so basically, there can be up to six victors. Use the tribute form on my profile (you don't have to, but I'd appreciate it if you would) and submit tributes to me over **PM. I will not accept tributes submitted over reviews.**   
_

_The reason it took me a week to right so little was because I'm writing a new story, and I want to write the first five chapters before I publish the first chapter, so I was focusing on that for a bit, and then I started to feel sick, and didn't want to write, and got busy... Blah, blah, blah. Meaningless excuses.  
_

_We're in the Games! Celebrate!_

_No song this time. Next time._

* * *

_**D7- 16- (Damien Andrews)**_

The bloodbath can be described only by its name: _bloodbath._ There is no other word that could make an outsider comprehend the bloodshed and terror and pain that the word evokes, it's so intense and powerful. I can only attempt to imagine the fear that fills the loners' minds, the worry for their future that spreads through them like a furious ache in every bone of their being, every morsel of every atom in their system.

I guess I'm lucky I have allies, but I'm not going to admit it to them. The other male from my district and one of the District Ten tributes have all formed an alliance with me.

"Hey, cover me," the District Ten tribute says. His name is Nick diLaurnetis. "I need a sword."

Decon steps back and glances at me, waiting for me to respond with a "yes" or a "no." He does that a lot—sticks to the background, waiting for one of us to do his bidding, to make the decisions. He had for nearly the entire third day of training, when we allied, talking only when necessary. He talked a lot, at first, when we were just getting allied, but as it became official, he backed off and his conversation halted mostly.

"With what?" I ask, my eyes scouring for tributes coming at us. Decon is the one with the weapon. He has it raised.

"Decon's axe," Nick tells me, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Of course. Your knife, if it will help."

I look at my little knife. I may as well be a butter knife.

"Uh, no. Wait a minute, okay? Be patient; stay out of action," I order rationally. "Until it dies off a bit, stay by Decon's—"

Nick looks at me like I'm insane. "We _can't!_" he protested. "We're gonna—oh, God! I told you!"

I follow his gaze, and so does Decon, his axe ready. A tribute is running seemingly straight at us, but his eyes aren't focused on us. He takes a sharp turn and disappears behind the Cornucopia. I breathe out in relief and look at my useless knife. Had I been alone, with nothing but this small weapon, and the tribute was come at me, I would not be alive right now. I thank everything that prevented it with every fiber of my being.

"One at a time," Decon suggests, holding up his axe. "Nick, you should stay back first, because you're bigger than Damien and can probably function with just his little knife. I'll go up there and hack at anything comin' at us. Then we'll come back and you'll stay and wait, Damien, and Nick and I will go up there and get his sword. Alright? Safe enough plan for the two of you?"

It's not the lengthy spill of words that flow from him that surprises me, but how brilliant they are. In moments of terror or moments that you know are filled with decisions that will ultimately change your life—in our case the change would be live…or don't live—I can understand how thoughts might get tangled beyond the ability to forge a good thought in one's head. Simple as it is, this plan seems like the greatest masterpiece of plans a person could possibly think of.

"Brilliant," Nick mumbles, nodding. He sticks his hand out, palm up, to me, expecting the knife. I place it in his hand and look expectantly to Decon, offering no word of encouragement despite that I do think it's a good, strategic plan. The best we can come up with now, the three of us. We're not working right, not thinking the best we could. I know I'm not, at least. I am here and there and this and that. The world is spinning but then it's rotating but then it's revolving and twirling and spiraling and it's all a jumble of confusion.

Decon's axe is ready and he is too. We set off towards the Cornucopia. I don't have my eyes set on a hatchet yet because I can't spot one. I really hope they have one; from training I know I'm better using hatchets than axes. I could settle on an axe, but I wouldn't be satisfied with hit. They're just different in my hands, harder for me to work with, especially as a weapon. And while we're allies, I think I'll need something to protect me with.A weapon I'm good at using in times of needs. Emergencies.

We reach as close as we dare to the Careers' realm of the Cornucopia and I scope out what it has to offer. No hatchets show themselves. Disappointed, I hurry around, going as far as I'm willing to towards the Careers, flinching and hopping away when I knife is drawn in a flurry. I automatically think this knife was taken out for me, that it's meant to kill me. I cringe when I see the amused look on Decon's face.

"Shut the hell up," I snarl.

"Wasn't talking."

And then: _Finally!_—a hatchet!

I try to keep the excitement out of my eyes as I lunge for it, pulling it into my hands and recoiling from the danger that this little movement has caused. Away from the Careers, from the blood and horror. Nick will now get his sword, and we'll all run off, planning now and killing later. Equidistant from becoming friends, from forming a bond that could get us killed, but close enough to be deadly—deadly enough—we should be good. We should be a strong alliance in all.

"Got it?" Decon asks; I'm surprised by how much he's been talking today.

I nod. "Yeah, right here." I slide it smoothly into my belt as we pick up pace again.

"_Ow!_" my ally growls right next to me. I look over. His arm—his _throwing_ arm, too!—has a knife jabbed into it, and the jabber is next to him.

My hatchet flies out of my belt immediately as adrenaline pulls me to get it out. I turn to the boy who hurt Decon, and he cowers away at first. But his knife rises, and I now know it was right to get ready to attack him, as he would have either attacked me or finished Decon off. Nick and I need Decon's skills, so I know it wouldn't be good for any of us if he was killed now.

I throw my arm back and forward, lodging the hatchet into his shoulder blade. Aiming for his head, I know this wasn't good enough. He dodged, and I didn't hold my arm right, didn't throw my strength forward properly. He screams out in pain, and I hear Decon picking something up behind me and calling, "Nick'll help you in a minute!" as he runs back to him.

The boy, holding his shoulder blade and doing his best just to clutch the knife and stand up right, is probably my age, and taller than me. But he's skinnier, too, and he doesn't have a weapon as good as mine, or an attack system planned out other than attack and hope to get lucky. And with my minimal but helpful knowledge of using hatchets and axes from working in District Seven, I have the immediate advantage. Had I paused, though, had I hesitated, he would've gotten me, would've killed me.

But now I have him in the perfect place. Gaining strength but not enough of it, he's easy to kill. I will raise my hatchet; I will let it fall; that's all that must be done to finish him. I now raise it, and I now let it fall, dropping it to his falling form as pain overrides him from his shoulder blade again. It burrows into his head, and a screech erupts briefly. Blood spurts from his head injury, and without a further glance I yank out the hatchet and run back to my allies.

* * *

_**D11- 16- (Kayla Baker)**_

I've returned to my girls. The five of us group up, smile, and exchange a few "Oh, thank God you're alive's." All too close to the center of the action, all too close to the Careers and other contenders.

"Sky, Nelly, go find Allegra and Calypso for me, would you?" I say. "I'll be right here, waiting, keeping the fighters away from you."

As much as I want to win—and as certain as I am that I will, though it brings great sadness to me that my close friend Skylar will die for my life—I know the right thing to do, now, is to thoroughly protect Skylar. And if that means I have to sort of produce some iffy protection towards the other girls, that's okay. I will. For Skylar only, the younger girl who's family might shatter if she doesn't return. I must let Skylar put up a fight, let her do well.

My family can manage without me, despite the sadness. That's the part that kills me.

Nelly nods. Skylar shakes her head. "No, Kayla, come on," she insists, cocking her head slightly and moving closer. "What do you need? Come on!"

Her pleading eyes melt me, but I hold my ground. I do need to stay here; I do need to make sure the Careers don't flee back to the girls. I will flee myself when the four of them—or should I just say Skylar?—is safe, away from the Cornucopia. With my knives I will fight others off, make them go the other way. They will have to oblige by force or kill me and take their own path, but either way, I'm sure I'll have delayed them long enough that the girls will have an obvious advantage in that they'll be far away.

Not far enough.

"I'm scared," she whimpers as quietly as she can, begging me to go on once she's sure I'm staying for a little longer to protect them.

"I know," I say back softly, and her pleading eyes are sweeter than an ignorant baby's, sadder than a hungry child's. More scared than I've ever seen her soft eyes.

"Oh…Skylar!" I get out. "Why? Why with the eyes?" I sigh, and a small smile reaches her lips.

I start off, running from the bloodbath. I can see Nelly has collected the others and they're waiting just outside the ring of fighting for us. I see nothing amiss in my terror that rises by the second. Skylar follows beside me. I keep running without hesitation. She drifts slowly out of my peripheral view, but I can hear her footsteps beside me, keeping up pace. Terrified glances are thrown at me from my allies. I run faster in paranoia that a Career is coming after us, silently telling myself repeatedly, They're just worried. Skylar will be alright. I will be alright.

When I reach them, fear is still in their eyes. Two sets of eyes.

I look around for Skylar, who I realize has disappeared. I stopped hearing her footsteps shortly after I spotted the scared glances, and in my paranoia I hardly even noticed…

"Skylar!" I yell, whirling to run back. I hand takes up a handful of my shirt. I yank myself free.

"Kayla, _no!_" Calypso says beside me. "You can't go back, you just can't."

"Allegra, too! No!" I screech.

Calypso and Nelly both throw me hard glances. I cower away from these and know I've failed, and that I'm only about to risk everything for the two girls I cannot save. But a wave of hatred and anger and so much pain that it seems insurmountable cascades through my body, running down, down, down, and pulling me too. Gravity, just for me, has grown so strong that I can't hold my body up. I can't keep it from collapsing.

_No!_ I scream at myself. _I can't! Can't abandon the girls, can't abandon __myself._

"_Kayla,_" a scared voice pleads. "Stand up. We have to go. Oh, please—hurry!"

I didn't realize I'd fallen. I drag myself up, but I'm dizzy and I don't know why. Nausea arises and I don't know how long I can hold the urge to vomit down. The only thing I'm aware of is a little voice, whether it's in my head or out, yelling, "Go! Hurry!" I think it's just me, telling myself I can do this, and I have to keep going. But I can't, and it doesn't help that I'm expecting to wake up in a couple minutes on reaping day morning…


	19. Chapter 19: Openness or Death

_The night of the bloodbath! This is basically an update chapter to show that these tributes are okay (or not okay, in...most cases... I am cruel to my characters). I used Write or Die on a couple POVs, and that was terrifying, pretty much. I got blocked in the middle of Forest's POV and had to start typing gibberish so the app would stop erasing my words.  
_

_Yes. But it all turned alright. I lost a paragraph though in the process of freaking out and losing all these words. I may not use the kamikaze mode again... _

_The next chapter should have some deaths. And will have either Carlyn or Krumr's POVs so we can all see who Krumr goes psycho on this time. Ahh, the loveliness of writing a psychopath._

_Anyway - Announcement: I will now accept tributes for my next story. There will be forty-eight. Two males and two females of each district. There will be eight teams of six tributes, and whoever is alive from the winning team at the end will be allowed to go home as victor, so basically, there can be up to six victors. Use the tribute form on my profile (you don't have to, but I'd appreciate it if you would) and submit tributes to me over **PM. I will not accept tributes submitted over reviews.** _

* * *

It's been a long time coming  
Such a long, long time  
And I can't stop running  
Such a long, long time  
Can you hear my heart beating?  
Can you hear that sound?  
'Cause I can't help thinking  
And I won't stop now

**_"Gra_**_**vity" by Coldplay**_

* * *

**_D9- 17- (Fiona Ryder)_**

"Sage."

It's midnight now. It's the next day. My heart is pounding and I need a drink, need a break, need anything that is not running. My head hurts, my feet hurt, my throat hurts. I want someone to tell me I can stop. I need someone to say that that is acceptable. I have done well. I am allowed a break. But no one except Sage is here to say that, and I don't think he will. Oh, my legs burn… My side aches, too, to add to this load of pain.

"Fiona," he responds. His voice is even, cool. I want to look over at him longingly. Want to give him a look that says _Tell me I've done good. Let me stop. Oh please, oh please, Sage, oh please._ But I don't. I hold back and run a bit more. He waits for me to say something else, not saying "What were you going to say?" or "Was that all?" He's very respectful. Very understand. That or very, very tired, like me.

"Break time?" I request hopefully. I see him out of the corner of my eye nodding, but I may just be picturing that out of this state of ache. I don't know how I've done it. My running has started to rhythmically chant _Oh-please, oh-please, oh-please_ with each footstep. Oh please. Let it stop. He holds his hand out in front of me and I realize I've kept going. I didn't know to stop. His hand is bony and tan.

I look up at him as I stop. He's entirely tan and looks weak. It isn't just his hands that are bony; he is so bony everywhere, and lanky. His eyes are narrow and his chin pointed. His features are small; his arms are long. His eyes are the same dark brown as his shoulder-length, shaggy hair. Sage Birr is not a handsome man. I would not even consider him a man from the innocence in his eyes. Yet, he is an open, inviting person, and you can tell from just one glance. You _want_ to speak to him. You _want _him to listen to _you._

We have nothing to drink or eat on our break. Long, barren, open fields of endless nothingness stretch as for a while, but in the distance earlier when it was light enough to see, I saw the bluish tint of a forest's outline against the darkening sky. The ground below us ranges from cracked to barren to grassy to wet. We need a lake. I don't know if we'll find one before we dehydrate. We need sponsors. We need something that we cannot obtain in anything more than small increments: What Sage and I need is a whole load of hope.

* * *

_**D3- 17- (Forrest Montgomery)**_

I have to keep going. I can't stop at a cave or stop to look at a flower. I have chosen my course and I have decided that I must live, and so I will. I have to keep going. I have to.

There's not much for me to run to. There is the openness offered ahead of me and the death offered behind. I want to go back. I want to live in the heavenly Cornucopia. I want to go home. Openness or death, openness or death. What do I choose? Is either way a guaranteed death sentence? I can't go on forever. I'm so thirsty. I'm so tired. I'm so hungry. I want to go home. Openness or death, openness or death.

Each step I take makes a noise. "Open," one step says. "Ness," the next taunts. "Or," the third screams. "Death," the fourth mocks. Over and over. Openness or death. I want to yell at the sky and curse and scream and then curl up in a little ball, but I know that I _can_ make it, so I can't stop. I gulp in air, but the amount of air I wanted to come in doesn't come in. I feel like I can't breathe, but my footsteps taunt me and I keep going. The chant in endless and it drives me insane. Openness or death. Openness or death.

It wouldn't be so bad if the openness weren't so ominous. I would otherwise welcome the hope it brings. The impossible hope in this bitter death trap. I tell myself to see it as an opportunity. I tell myself to stay strong and optimistic. I tell myself that all is good. All is fine. But my footsteps tell me otherwise. My head agrees with my running. This is scary. Go back. Go back. _Go back._ I know I can't though. No matter what, there is hope in forward. There is no hope in backward.

"Open." "Ness." "Or." "Death." I'm going insane.

Why did it have to be me? I wonder if all tributes have thought this before. Of course they have. How could they not? It's terrifying out here, knowing that every single one of the people in this place wants to kill me. Even sweet little Calypso, only fourteen, would just as easily stab me in the throat as she would go home. In fact, that's what it might take for her to go home: A knife in my throat. Could I put one in her throat? The worst part is, I think I could. Again: _Why did it have to be me?_

I finally just collapse in the emptiness. The emptiness is hilly and I think I'm safe from being spotted for the time being. I have to get to those woods. I have to get to water, to a resting area where I'm not always running. I try to make it stop, but my breath comes in ragged gasps and I feel like I might pass out. I didn't realize how much breath I needed.

What time is it, I wonder? I saw the faces in the sky earlier. One of them was Rylan.

It could have been me.

* * *

**_D2- 16- (Stone Zhunder)_**

We are leaderless. Without control, without someone to say to go here and tell the other to go there, and without someone to finalize any of our plans, we're not exactly lost, but we're definitely confused. How did Beck die? How could anyone overpower him? What are we to do? I think I'm the least-affected. Perhaps it's because I liked him the least.

"So…what about a vote?" Azaleigh suggests. She looks up at the sprawled-out lot of us. I sit in the mouth, eating an apple slowly. It's sweet and red—very red. "The people who _don't_ want to be leader nominate two and we vote, maybe."

"Brilliant," Jackson says immediately. I resist the urge to groan and instead I overdramatically roll my eyes. Vixen catches this and elbows me, to which I send a sharp glare. "I don't want to be."

"Neither do I," pipes up Dante. His expression is amused. The humorless joke does not touch anyone else. We all stare at him blankly; because of course he would never be the leader. He is from District Six. What does he think—that we're stupid?

"I don't particularly," Adelina admits. She looks over at her sister, who opens her mouth to speak, but then doesn't.

Vixen shakes her head.

I don't like the idea. And taking pride in the fact that I am the only one who doesn't, taking pride in the fact that everyone else—even Gleam—seems to be running along merrily with this idea that we should be very wary of, I decide that I really must voice my opinion and change their minds. To make them aware of the flaws I can point out.

Actually, I just don't agree. And they're all idiots, so I'd like them to know that.

Pointed glances are thrown my way from all around the Cornucopia in my vision. I take a bite of my apple, of which I have eaten down to the core by now, and toss it backwards into the metal horn. The sun is going down, so it's not as ridiculously shiny as it was earlier in the day; shadows from the mountains are cast over it, which also help. I hear a _thunk!_ as the apple hits metal.

"This is a stupid idea."

The others raise their eyebrows.

I shrug. "You can't decide who's—" I'm interrupted, the words _the strongest by a simple vote_ falling away.

"So you don't want to be," Gleam snaps. "Who does that leave—Daphne and me?"

"I vote Daphne." This was Adelina. I expected nothing more.

"Gleam," Jackson votes.

"Gleam," Azaleigh agrees.

"Daphne." Vixen.

It's now up to me, as Dante doesn't get a vote. At first I refuse, and the others groan, saying I'm pathetically being overly difficult, but I shrug this insult off. We all pack up for hunting for tributes later tonight or this morning, but make no path. It's completely disorganized. I want to keep my stubbornness up, but when we're all unnecessarily packing too much food, too much everything—I cave.

"Gleam," I mumble with a short sigh. "I vote Gleam for the leader thing, alright?"

Daphne shrugs. I know she didn't want to be leader all that much, but Adelina wanted her to be. Adelina scowls for a moment before stomping off to her pack and going through the supplies. She's waiting for commands from Gleam as to what we need to bring. Gleam doesn't look smug but instead dark. She had liked Beck, I think, and must think she needs to do things as he would have done or something.

"Well, then. Well," she murmurs, close to me. She stands up and assesses all of us. "Daphne, you're leader. I'm not a strategist."

Daphne narrows her eyes thoughtfully. "You're stronger."

"I am. You're smarter. Slightly."

"Gleam—"

"As of now I am leader and I say you are!" The way Gleam snarls this is finalization: There is to be no more arguing and that is that. This is this. Daphne is the leader. No further questions are to be asked, no further ands, buts, or ors are to be uttered. She had decided this. I don't mind; I blurted her name out because she was the closest. Honestly, they're pretty equal, but Gleam is colder and Daphne has hints of occasional modesty.

"Fine, fine," Daphne says slowly, standing up at Gleam sinks to the ground. "Uh…to save space, we should each carry a pack with assigned materials, of course," she gets out with carefulness to each word. Adelina makes a motion with her hands that I don't understand, encouraging her sister apparently. "Yeah—so. The strongest…is probably Jackson or Dante. We ought to bring one or both of them. One or two of us has to stay behind or we have to somehow protect the supplies without a guard."

Of course no one volunteers. But Daphne takes action, and I don't like her plan, no matter how strategic it is. I don't want to be stuck back here with nothing to do during a hunt. I will _not_ be stuck back here during a hunt, no matter what anyone says. That I will stick with. That I will stay by my stubbornness on. I won't cave.

"Well, then. Intervals it is," Daphne rationalizes. "It's sensible to take the strongest on the first night out. People will be expecting us. So…Gleam. Adelina. Jackson. Azaleigh." _No, no, no._ She has to say my name. I will strangle her if she sticks me on guard duty. "Dante…" One more name. She looks between Vixen and I tentatively. _Me! It has to be me!_ "And…Stone. Sorry, Vixen. You won't mind staying back this time, will you?"

When Vixen shakes her head, she continues: "Next time will be Dante _and_ Gleam. Keep an eye on him, yeah? Then Jackson, Azaleigh, Stone, Adelina, me, and…back to Vixen, if all works out well."

"Guard duty _intervals,_" Dante groans, "with _her?_"

Gleam smirks evilly. "Don't worry, Six. You won't be here long enough to experience two turns."

"Let's get ready," Daphne says in the dimming twilight. "It's getting dark."

* * *

**_D9- 17- (Asher Lightwood) _**

We all have this humanistic survival instinct that rages in us like fire rages over a field of dry, dying grass in the hot, dry air of a drought, or the dry, waterless air of a bad winter. District Nine experiences both every once in a while, and I've seen both. I've seen a fire in one too; they were rare occurrences that I saw before I turned eleven. That fire was big and disastrous. It caused famine and poverty and pain to reside in our district for too long, too long, too long. When I was eight, just old enough to comprehend some of the worse things in my world, I would catch my mother whispering, "Too long, too long, too long, Archimedes." If I was looking, I would see my father's arms go around her as he kissed her head. "I know, Maya," he'd whisper back with a heavy sigh.

It scared me. My mother would even ask, "What about the kids? What if it lasts until they're older?"

District Nine was in a state of chaos for two years before we were able to farm again, the damage from the fire paid for through supplies and the drought long gone. I know now that that fire wasn't an accident, or the Capitol would've given us what we needed to thrive again as best we could and provide their grain much earlier. It was planned. A patch of dry grass, just big enough to rage through the fields; a matchbox conspicuously found nearby… Perhaps the Peacekeepers saw these things. Perhaps they reported it.

Beatrice was three when this happened. She needed to be fed. I did too, and my mother and father. I had started working in the fields when I was seven. When the first fire blistered, bruised, and burnt our district, I had to go out of my way to get to the other side of the district so I could still work, but this was hardly enough. The time spent getting to the other side after school was time and money wasted. My parents didn't want me to do this. They told me that I wouldn't work anymore until the fields near our house were mended when I was nine, and so I spent that year and my entire year at age ten sneaking off on the weekends when there was nothing else to do and Beatrice's four- and five-year-old gray eyes longed for nourishment.

Then when everything went back to normal, when the district finally gained a little compensation for the losses we experience in both lives and food, I worked again, and I have since, coming home late, exhausted and bruised, cut, blistered, like the fields of my youth years. All for feeding Beatrice, Jace, Ada, Mother, Father, and myself.

There was no other reason than to fuel my family and myself. And when Jace is twelve, he will do just as I did when I was seven: He will work until his hands are bloody and his mind is numb to feed them all. If I don't come back. If I come back, I will feed them still. Mother and Father will still work, but not as much. I do not care entirely for the Lightwoods; I help my parents care for all of us. I couldn't do it alone. I take a lot of tesserae, and I work a lot, but it wouldn't be enough without them.

To my dismay, I realize that Beatrice, if I die, will take loads of tesserae as well.

However, the way that all of this relates to the Games is not my working but the fire. It blazes and tears through wherever it touches, and as humans, survival is our fire. We become animals. We blaze and our worlds burn and our minds ache as we dream of the future when death isn't knocking at our door. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. And still we don't go to the door.

"Asher?" Aeris whispers from farther into the cave we've chosen to hide at for a while. It's at the farthest mountain from the Cornucopia, and a valley dips down off to the side of our cave's entrance. The cave isn't perfectly hidden to someone who is looking, but it's ominous and innocent at once, and the roaring waters of the valley below almost sent us away from it, but Aeris thought that that would be perfect: If the fast waters below, useless to tributes basically because they race so quickly and dangerously, scare us, it might fend of others too. We can work out a way to get water later.

"Yeah?" I respond in a hushed voice, scooting away from my perch at the edge of the cave, looking out at what part of the arena I can see. It's raining over the grassy field. The grass is dead and brown instead of a vibrant green like it is a ways off, on the other side of the Cornucopia. This is a big arena, but there are extra tributes, so I guess it makes sense. It's strategic to make these Games epic, as most things are. The Gamemakers have to put up a show for the Capitolites.

"I'm up," she says.

I look back at her with a small smile and stand up, walking so I'm across from her. I can see her in the faint light that the moon gives off and sends into our cave. If the cave is big enough, we can build a fire farther in and cook whatever animals we can find and kill on this mountain and the area around it. Surely things live in the area of the valley where the river doesn't reach, or up in the higher elevations of the mountain.

"Obviously," I reply.

She nods. Her dark, messy hair bobs in its ponytail. She takes the hair tie out and redoes her ruined hairstyle.

"Are you taking watch?" she asks. "I thought we agreed we weren't going to have a watch system."

I shrug. "I woke up earlier and it was still bright from the moon so I went to the edge."

"Fair enough."

I pull her backpack close to me and unzip it. I look in and pull out a curved-edge object: a scythe. I look up at her questioningly. She just stares at the scythe in my hand. I hold it in my hand like I would if I were working in Nine, the familiarity of the object fitting to my hand. My hand curls around its edge and I grip it. This is the weapon I wanted but couldn't get, frantic from not being able to find Aeris and the bloodbath raging around me.

"You got this for me?" I ask.

"Well, _I_ don't want it. I'm going to use my knife."

"And your bow," I add.

Aeris shrugs indifferently. "And my bow," she agrees, "for long-distance fighting."

"We have to get one for you," I say. She wasn't able to get a bow and neither was I. She was so brave anyway, diving into the fight for her backpack and her knife and my scythe apparently. I scooped up a package of dried fruit, a water bottle, a small backpack, and then ran around wildly, completely terrified and unprepared for the horror brought by the bloodbath.

She shrugs again. "I would like it if we did, but the occasion would have to show itself, you know."

I nod. I knew. Being so close to the Cornucopia, though, we should find the occasion somehow.

"So…"

"So thanks." I look down at the scythe again before shoving it into my backpack that I've sat next to. I run my hand along the cold, hard rock floor. "I appreciate this."

* * *

**_D10- 16- (Leo Rivers)_**

To put one foot in front of the other is my only goal.

_Go! Go! Get away! The Careers are coming!_

Chants rampage through my mind and I have to do what they say because it's all I can possibly think of doing. Go. Run away. Fast. Faster. They must be coming. They must be gaining. I'm in danger. I can't think but to think of the obvious danger inevitably sprinting after me. "Leo!" they call from far, far behind, coming closer and closer and closer… "We're _coming!_"

I turn around and I can see them. I turn back and run as fast as I can. When I check behind me, they're closer. Run. Check. Closer. Run. Check. Closer. Run. Check. _They're right behind me!_

Oh God, oh no, oh God.

Something knocks me down, and I curl up, away from the weapon, but there it is, coming downwards, downwards, downwards. "No!" I cry. "No, please!"

The weapon is millimeters away…

I shriek as I wake up.

Sitting up as fast as I can, my hand goes over my mouth. Where did I fall asleep? My mind is swirly and confused. Light dimly throws itself at the ground as the sun rises. I rise too. I'm in a bush. Or, really, I'm next to a bush that doesn't conceal me at all. How tired was I last night? How long was I running? My head aches and my legs are sorer than they've ever been in my whole life. I let out a long groan and stifle another shriek as pain surfaces and plants its deep roots into my red leg.

"Ohhhhh…" I let out an involuntary moan. "No, no, nooooo…"

I fumble around for something before remembering I got nothing at the bloodbath. I let out another groan. I'm doomed. "No…" I can't think. I want to throw up. I think back to the horror of training and throwing up then and that now seems like nothing in comparison. I feel lightheaded. I ran on my bad leg for apparently quite a ways yesterday. The mountain I remember passing before everything went fuzzy seems a fair distance away, but I could be imagining that. Blood is pooled in the grass I lay on. A welcoming tree is nearby. Many are, in fact, splattered across the plain with no pattern. I want to climb up in it and let nature take its course but I wouldn't make it. Weaponless, injured, helpless, waterless, and foodless, I'm more than doomed. My jaw hurts. I don't know why.

"Unhhhh…"

I prefer my quick, though painful, death in the dream to this long, agonizing death to come. The sun mocks me. It is coming to life, while I fade to death.

* * *

**_D8- 13- (Alicia Ludwig)_**

Alicia can't see far. Everything's all blurry and she's not walking in a straight line. After a while, she realizes she's tired. Hungry. Thirsty. Her head aches and her stomach gurgles; there is a sharp burning sensation roaring in her arm that she doesn't understand. Her mouth is dry. She blinks. No pretty flowers. She thought there would be pretty flowers. Isn't she wandering through a meadow? What's going on? Where is her mother and father?

She drops to the ground and sobs because she doesn't understand. She fumbles around with her hair, which is straightened, brushed, combed, cleaned, cut, and smooth. It was in such a state before that the stylists had to completely redo it. They washed it several times, they brushed it until the tangles were mostly gone and she was crying, but it was so ratty and messy that they had to cut it and style it. They gave her bangs that swept to the side but wouldn't get in her face.

The ground is nothing but brown dirt, a lighter brown than her silky hair. She pulls a strand of her once shoulder-length and now chin-length brown hair as far as she can get it and looks at it. Why did they do all of that to her hair before? It made her head ache all over for so long, and they did absolutely nothing to it as she saw things. She always saw it as the pretty softness it was in reality now, instead of its tangled heap of brown that it was before.

Her crying had stopped as her mind wandered to her hair, away from the pain. She used her good arm to examine her hair, running her hands over it and over it. Her other arm rose to her head to and Alicia yelped. Pain! There was the pain again! Oh, what _was_ that? she wondered. Why wasn't her mouth nice and wet like it always had been? Why was her arm all red with blood that flowed from it? Why did it hurt to move her arm?

She sobbed again, crying out as she sunk to the ground on her good arm. Gibberish that only she understood flowed through her sobs. There was no one to explode off onto, so she was left confused in her sparkly glitter world, not understanding what all of _this_ was: the pain, the hunger, the thirst. Why, why, why? It wouldn't stop; none of it would stop.

Alicia Ludwig, broken by the Capitol's greed, was waking up, and consciousness was painful.

* * *

**Tributes whose names are in bold are alive:**

_**D1- (Luxuries)  
**_

**_1. Gleam Diode, 18, female. Megalor9  
_**

**_2. Adelina Summerfield, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_3. Daphne Summerfield, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_D2- (Masonry)_**

_**1. Azaleigh Rommel, 16, female. Araka-chan**  
_

_2. Beck Ferrari, 18, male. WhyNotDream  
_

**_3. Stonesia "Stone" Zhunder, 16, female. XOXOFutureFame  
_**

**_D3- (Technology)_**

**_1. Forrest Montgomery, 17, WhyNotDream  
_**

_**2. Calypso Oswald, 14, female. WhyNotDream**  
_

_3. Rylan "Ry" Ashmore, 14, male. the epic bookworm  
_

**_D4- (Fishing)_**

**_1. Vixen Payne, 17, female. jblonde123  
_**

**_2. Nelly Carter, 13, female. Bowserboy129  
_**

**_3. Jackson Brothel, 17, male. Araka-chan  
_**

**_D5- (Power) _**

_**1. Anya Saitov, 18, female. the epic bookworm**  
_

_2. Allegra Ride, 12, female. WhyNotDream  
_

_3. Tenne Bradhe, 18, male. BlueYoshGuy  
_

_**D6- (Transportation)**_

**_1. Dante Kyanide, 17, male. Megalor9  
_**

_2. Cade Allens, 17, male. bijtjen  
_

_3. Phoenix Grant, 18, male. the epic bookworm  
_

**_D7- (Lumber)_**

**_1. Decon Crow, 17, male. Bowserboy129  
_**

**_2. Jaelyn "Jae" Nicole Analetto, 15, female. SpunkyFun  
_**

_**3. Damien Andrews, 16, male. Jammerock2000**  
_

_**D8- (Textiles)**_

_1. Damon Grey, 18, male. sportygirl123 **  
**_

_2. Dan Axton, 17, male. Jammerock2000  
_

**_3. Alicia Ludwig, 13, female. the epic bookworm  
_**

**_D9- (Grain)_**

**_1. Asher Lightwood, 17, male. Rikachan101  
_**

**_2. Aeris Lockhart, 15, female. Rikachan101  
_**

**_3. Fiona Ryder, 17, female. sportygirl123  
_**

**_D10- (Livestock)_**

_**1. Nick DiLaurnetis, 16, male. CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal**  
_

_2. Jak Crenshaw, 17, male. Jammerock2000  
_

_**3. Leo Rivers, 16, male. WhyNotDream**  
_

_**D11- (Agriculture)**_

_1. Skylar Mitchell, 14, female. Jammerock2000  
_

**_2. Kayla Baker, 16, female. Jammerock2000  
_**

_**3. Sage Birr, 17, male. the epic bookworm**  
_

_**D12- (Mining)**_

**_1. Krumr Strongthews, 18, male. CapitolRules  
_**

**_2. Carlyn Hansen, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_3. Astrid Levine, 15/16, female. CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal_**


	20. Chapter 20: Your Mistakes

_Late chapter, huh? Well, I've had finals and tests and projects and school ends on Wednesday for me. So yeah. Today had been the first solid day to work on it because there was a fire in part of my school and the fire was small but the smoke was really bad so school was cancelled (yay - except for the fire...). Anyway... Finally, I give you day one. It was going to have a Career POV, but then I thought that it would just never be posted if I added another POV. So no Careers. But I did add the little mini Anti-Career pack thing. _

_Also - TRIBUTES! I need them for the next Games._

* * *

Come away little lamb  
Come away to the water  
Give yourself so we might live anew  
Come away little lamb  
Come away to the slaughter  
To the ones appointed to see this through  
We are calling for you  
We are coming for you

**"Come Away to the Water" by Maroon 5**

* * *

**_D4- 13- (Nelly Carter)_**

I think Calypso and even Kayla only see me as this silent, insane backstabber. I think that they think I'm not just a small, little District Four girl who's untrained and was scared during the bloodbath—because that's all I was: afraid. So I got quiet and I listened, tried to see and hear everything at once even though I knew I couldn't. I think they see me as a coming threat, a growing killer.

I'm not. Oh, God, I'm not.

They look wary around me, and all I can think about when they do that is that this isn't a good alliance for any of this. Floods of images from the last Games fill my head and I remember the way that Gray looked at Ryan and the way Ryan looked at Gray. I want to look at Kayla that way, but I can't. She's not worthy of the admiring, adoring look. I want her to look at me that way too, but she's afraid of me—me! The youngest in the alliance, the least mentally sound… But I'm not the kind of insane that would make me thrash out and kill them in their sleep… My friends say I'm the good kind of insane that makes me sometimes flail around while I'm talking without knowing, or wake up at a sleepover and forget I ever went to sleep, carrying on with the same conversation in gibberish because I'm so tired.

It almost makes me sad when they give me fleeting glances, as if to make sure I'm not pouncing at them. Or when they look at each other after I've done something particularly odd, seeming to say with their eyes, _Did you see that? Watch out for her… She might attack now._ I won't, I won't, and oh I won't! Why would they think this? How could they think this? Do I do crazy things that I don't remember? Am I imagining all of their looks of suspicion?

Actually, I don't mean it _almost makes me sad._ It _does._ I am genuinely sad. I don't want to be insane. I want to be strong for Ryan. I want to pull myself together, stand tall, and tell the whole world silently, specifically the Capitol, "You killed my friend. You killed him, and you did this to me too. And now you're killing me, and I don't approve. So please, step aside while I let the squirrels rip you to shreds and my spider army eat your remains."

I remember the day of the reaping, when I went to the Victors' Village and stood at the house that I was sure Ryan would've chosen had he won. I remember looking out over the ocean of District Four, and that sadness is happiness in comparison to the sadness that fills me because of my spiraling sanity and the fact that I don't know if I can make it out of this. I will fight to the end and go down trying hard, but in the end…I'm just a thirteen-year-old girl. I'm still _little_, barely a teenager… And here I am. On the brink of death. Dying, dying, dying with every second, knowing that every breath another tribute takes is a breath they take to keep themselves alive so they can kill me.

More than anything I want to go home, crawl in my mother or father's lap, and cry into their shoulder. I want to hug my big brother Erik and tell him I love him. I want to laugh with my friends and say that I am most certainly insane and it's most certainly in a good way, and I want it to be true. I want to see Ryan and I want to have a sleepover with them and I want to wake up late at night, forgetting I fell asleep, and talk gibberish for a while before dozing off again. I want to flail my arms and not know it.

I don't care what I'd be, but I don't want to be a tribute.

"Nelly?" I hear Kayla ask quietly. It's the early hours of the morning. It's my shift now, and it might be close to time for me to wake them up. I suppose they're already up, though. I look to Calypso and see that she's not, so I decide to whisper when I respond.

"What?"

"Is everything alright?" she asks me in a sympathetic voice, which almost startles me.

I frown. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"You're crying."

* * *

**_D7- 17- (Decon Crow)_**

"Pack up" is my morning greeting.

I turn over and scowl at Damien, who had commanded me to do this. I cross my arms stubbornly, my eyelids drooping over my eyes. I let out a yawn, flip over, and defiantly don't do what he's told me. As if he can order me around, especially when I'm so tired and hungry. He can pack up himself. And while he's at it, I feel like having some waffles with strawberry syrup from the Capitol.

"Get up," he snaps; he shoves me as well, all too hard considering that I'm really tired and I pretty much saved his lucky ass yesterday in the bloodbath.

I sit up and glare at him, pissed off. "Like hell. Why don't you sit your bipolar ass back and let me get another half hour so I can save you again later when I'm rested?" I snarl. I have to add one more thing: "And while you're at it, I'd simply _love_ it if you could make me breakfast, Damien dear." I continue to glare for a second, adding an angry grimace, and lie back down.

"Get the—"

"Guys!" Nick interrupts. I look up and see him with a squirrel on the end of his spear, its blood still dripping down from it. _That's all he got?_ I groan silently. _We're going to starve if Damien and I can't do any better. _"Cut it out!" He rolls his eyes when he sees Damien's fists, clenched so tightly that his knuckles are white. I hadn't noticed that. I'm glad Nick interrupted when he did.

"Decon, sleep. Damien, skin this." He tosses his spear down by Damien, who stares at it with silent loathing and fury. "I'll get everything together and try to get more food while you're being a bum, Decon."

I roll my eyes. "Thanks, whatever," I mutter, and roll over. After a minute of listening to Damien's "Ew's" and the shuffling of Nick moving around, accompanied by the swampy, muddy, wet plain's noises, I'm still not asleep. I groan and sit up, saying quietly to them as I get up to help Nick, "Well, I'm awake for good now. But I'm taking the short watch tonight."

"Done," he tells me, shoving me away as I try to grab something nearby him. "That's mine."

I knew it was his. I hoped he would think it was when he saw me going after it. I sigh and sit back, packing what really is mine was Damien passes the dead, mutilated squirrel corpse to Nick, who skins in badly but more skillfully than Damien's sloppy disgusted way of poking a knife at it and gagging. Damien packs everything up. We wait for Nick to finish now.

When he's done, he throws the carcass into a little bag which he tosses into his backpack. He hides the hide of the animal in a particularly tall patch of green, green grass, and it makes a squish sound as it plops onto the grass. Nick arranges the grass so that it hides the skin well enough and I throw my backpack over my shoulder, standing up. I hold my axe close to me as we set off diagonally through the grass, making a line towards the mountains.

We spend an hour doing this, and the somewhat distant, ominously insurmountable land feature becomes more defined. Then we take a sharp turn and we're headed towards the forest again, still in the squishy wetness of the grassy plain but edging closer and closer into the desert plain. I tell them we shouldn't go this way, but we do. It begins to rain. Where the grass cuts off and the desert begins is distinct because of one thing: There's a river between it. No rain falls on the opposite side.

"Rain," Nick says with a sigh. "Too bad we have no shelter."

"Do we have anything to purify our water with?" I ask, already sliding my backpack off to look through it. Rain drizzles down slowly in small droplets, but it's picking up again. I search through the my backpack and so does Nick as well as Damien. Damien pulls something out and reads the label. My eye catches something and I pull it out. "I have something," I announce, reading the label like Damien.

"Me too," he says.

"I do too," Nick pipes up. "Why?"

I shrug. "Maybe there's shelter up that river." I nod towards the one separating the grass and the sand. "Until then, fill the canteens with rain if they're empty."

* * *

_**D12- 18- (Krumr Strongthews)**_

My watch shift is nearly over. Carlyn's sleeping in the open space. The ground below us is a light shade of brown, dry as ever. I see storm clouds way across the entire arena, on entirely the other side of the arena. I think about the flaws of this arena. The flatness makes me able to see anyone in the dry, light-brown dirt area unless they're hiding. Three heads in the distance haven't spotted Carlyn and me, and they haven't moved since last night either. We're hidden pretty well, Carlyn and I. Once she wakes up, we'll be off, though, to get the oblivious three ahead of us.

I nudge her softly. She's slept too long as it is. I've been lenient on the length of time I've allowed her to sleep. It's past early morning and into midmorning. The heads have been moving around since dawn. I worry that they'll start to move and make everything about killing them harder than it has to be. Carlyn's eyelids flutter and she starts to move her hand to her bandaged wound, but I stop her.

"Good morning," I greet her softly. She looks up at me, blinks, and sits up slowly. "I let you sleep too long."

She frowns. "What's wrong?" she asks me. She clears her throat.

"Nothing," I tell her.

"You sound short." Carlyn looks down at her side, wincing. It's bandaged in meticulously-placed and tied tissues, which make for crappy bandages but they were the best I could do for her. It's really good, though, considering what the materials available were.

I watch her closely and shake my head, saying nothing else. If she's not used to me generally sounding short because I am, then she should get used to it.

"Let's go," I snap, making an effort to sound snappier than usual without making it obvious that it's being done on purpose. She frowns more at me when she gets up and I don't help her or ask her how she's doing. She limps because it's close to her leg, and yesterday she told me every time she put pressure on her leg it made her wound ache and felt like the boy from Two was wounding her all over again.

I watch the heads as we advance on them. Their actions are jerkier, quicker, like they're preparing in a flourish but not quite sure if they should be preparing at all. They must think that we might want to ally, to move towards the woods that everyone craves desperately together, ringing around the arena and enclosing it. Secretly I do wonder what's in there, why they added it when it's so far away from the Cornucopia. But I push that thought away, narrowing my eyes. My hand stays on my axe the whole time. I'm aware of the knife in my backpack, the quiver of arrows slung over my shoulder, the bow on my other shoulder, ready to be pulled off in a split second and loaded. I'm ready for the kill.

"Hurry," I mutter to her. "Don't…hurt yourself," I advise impatiently, letting out a small sigh, "but go quicker." I don't want to hurt her, but then at the same time I do. I don't want her around, but then I think about if she wasn't and wonder why I ever wanted her gone. I don't want to see her in pain, but I imagine winning and think that she's not important enough to cost my life. What is she? Is she another tribute to kill, to ally with, a _friend_, a…_girlfriend?_ For her to be my friend is pitiful enough, but to even consider her as ever being my girlfriend, of ever caring so much for another human being again? I can't stand the thought, but I can't push it away either. I tell myself that it's so ridiculous that it sticks in my head, but really I'm not so sure that this is the reason why it seems to be stuck to me.

We—I—begin to make real progress on approaching the three by noon. They've begun to move too, but I told Carlyn soon after the repulsive girlfriend thought that I might speed up, but after I killed them I'd slow down and come back for her. She nodded understandingly. By now she must know I'm impatient and so she lets me run off towards the three tributes, heads bobbing as they run.

Eventually I'm close enough to see they're females. Two are about the same height, one is older and taller. They slow down for a breath but I do too to preserve my energy for the final stretch, the final sprint, to them. I take a drink of water and swallow in air, catching my breath as quickly as I can. I start off again before they do, so I make progress in good time. When they pick up their pace again worriedly, I'm close. I have a long-distance weapon. They stand no chance…

"Girls, go!" the older one screams. The younger ones' heads turn to her and she points her arm towards the woods. "Now!"

"Kayla," one says. I'm close enough to hear the girl and the desperation in her voice. "Go faster, Kayla, please."

"Shut up—I'll be right behind you if you go _now!_" The older one is almost snarling her words, obviously frustrated with the disobeying girls. They still don't run, and a smirk forms on my face as I slowly pull my bow from my shoulder. With extreme annoyance, I watch as the whole world seems to slow and my hand goes behind me, curling around an arrow. I pull it over my head and to my bow, loading it carefully. Lifting the bow. Choosing a target. Aiming a bow. Who do I want to kill? Who do I want to let go—for now?

I can hear the girls begging for mercy, and I can hear myself I'm teaching them an important lesson. I can picture the older one attempting to seem defiant, not crying out unless she's in a lot of pain and giving me a deep glare, giving the sky—and thereby the Capitol—an even more hateful glare, a glance that will make her entire district melt with love for this girl… Ugh. It's a fairytale for these stupid older ones, isn't it? To be defiant and to give a look they think is meaningful but is truly meaningless at the sky? A look that might be broadcast, but will do more than give their families harsher living conditions for no plausible reason other than to go down with a "fight"? To me, going down with a fight means you actually give your killer a bit of a struggle and you actively try to and nearly wound or wound your opponent before death. Have I not been updated on the new definition of "glare"? Does it mean to go down with a fight now in the Hunger Games? God, I hope not. That would be cheesy.

In the end, I choose to shoot and kill the older girl—maybe as an experiment of sorts, to test my theory on if she will try to act defiant but ultimately fail in that pathetic, idiotic way. She'll die with the shame of fake triumph on her broken shoulders, fake courage soaring through her heart which comes so close to stopping, to never beating again. The _thump-thump_ will end all because she was predictable, all because of hatred used in such a wasteful manner. My hatred towards so many things—I use that well.

The arrow flies, whizzing through the air, _owning_ the air. Three lines, so stupid and dramatic that it's silly, are screamed: "Kayla, no!" "Girls…_go right now!_" "Calypso, let's go!"

The younger ones are off in a flash, and I'm fine with that. The older one, Kayla apparently, braves the arrow. She stands straight and tall before turning to run, narrowing her eyes slightly, and I have to throw my head back and laugh. The predictability of these tributes doomed to die gives no light to the dark world. There's no way to uncorrupt the corruptness, but I know the pitiful, small beings who will get nowhere need hope to cling to like sad, pathetic little children, and when I see the predictability that even those who aren't as intelligent in the workings of the more primitive humans' minds can guess, I know that there isn't hope for them. If the Gamemakers, who have smaller IQs than my brainless finger would have if it itself had an IQ, can figure this out, can plan the Games accordingly, then humankind is doomed to go extinct or go as wild as the wildlife we're prohibited from venturing away from the districts to see.

They say they want our country to thrive, the Capitol authority figures. The citizens are airheads to believe that. Is thriving living in districts that are sometimes smaller than our arenas? Is thriving living entirely in an area equal to twenty large arenas, thirty or thirty-five fair-sized ones, or maybe fifty small ones? Is thriving keeping our creativity in unless creativity fits the job description of our district? Is thriving sending most everyone into unimaginable, irrational depression that outdoes any amount of will forced down our throats by the Capitol?

Depression, I believe, is irrational, because there's nothing we can do. There is no justice. There is no crime, because without justice there cannot be crime. There is no mercy. There is no cruelty, because without mercy there cannot be cruelty. There is not total elation—in the districts, at least. Not even in the Career districts. Therefore, there cannot be depression because it can't exist without a counterpart to balance it: total elation. Things are as they are. Extremes are unnecessary figures placed by early humans with hope that now are meaningless and only give a false feeling of hope.

Because the opposite of hope could be giving up. And there is giving up in this world, and there is hope. Both can exist. I will give hope, even if it is falsely used, to the primitive minds out there.

The arrow sent from my bow brings the girl down. She collapses with her false hope and her predictable false bravery. I run over to her and plan how I might go about this. As I run, a few ideas come to mind as to what I should say to her, but I like telling her what she did wrong and why she's laying on the ground in pain. Because of me, and because of her stupidity, she will die here today.

"Hello," I snarl in a low voice, kneeling over her. I place my knee over her stomach and she lets out a _huff._ "How are you today?" She grunts. "Me too." I narrow my eyes. "You do know why you're about to die, don't you?" I ask her slowly and menacingly. "You do know why you're pitifully lying in a helpless heap underneath me, waiting for the pain? Because I will make it painful—for your mistakes.

"You see—what is your name?"

She snaps, "You want to know…your prey's _name?_" Her voice is weak. "I will not give you that satisfaction, then. I'll let you live knowing that you never even knew my name."

"Well, then. You see, _dear_, you're brain is fatally flawed. In simple terms, you're fucking stupid. Did you really think you could live, trying to defy the Capitol with a glare? Did you really think you could beat me by doing it?" I snarl, digging my knee harder into her. The life is draining from her eyes and it seems to fuel me with anger. "Are the people of the districts so _stupid_ nowadays that they think by looking at the people who are going to _kill_ them angrily will blow up everything evil in there lives? Well, you are!" I mimic her voice cruelly: "'Girls, go right now!' _Please!_ You idiot."

And with that, down goes the axe into her neck.

* * *

**Tributes whose names are in bold are alive:**

_**D1- (Luxuries)  
**_

**_1. Gleam Diode, 18, female. Megalor9  
_**

**_2. Adelina Summerfield, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_3. Daphne Summerfield, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_D2- (Masonry)_**

_**1. Azaleigh Rommel, 16, female. Araka-chan**  
_

_2. Beck Ferrari, 18, male. WhyNotDream  
_

**_3. Stonesia "Stone" Zhunder, 16, female. XOXOFutureFame  
_**

**_D3- (Technology)_**

**_1. Forrest Montgomery, 17, WhyNotDream  
_**

_**2. Calypso Oswald, 14, female. WhyNotDream**  
_

_3. Rylan "Ry" Ashmore, 14, male. the epic bookworm  
_

**_D4- (Fishing)_**

**_1. Vixen Payne, 17, female. jblonde123  
_**

**_2. Nelly Carter, 13, female. Bowserboy129  
_**

**_3. Jackson Brothel, 17, male. Araka-chan  
_**

**_D5- (Power) _**

_**1. Anya Saitov, 18, female. the epic bookworm**  
_

_2. Allegra Ride, 12, female. WhyNotDream  
_

_3. Tenne Bradhe, 18, male. BlueYoshGuy  
_

_**D6- (Transportation)**_

**_1. Dante Kyanide, 17, male. Megalor9  
_**

_2. Cade Allens, 17, male. bijtjen  
_

_3. Phoenix Grant, 18, male. the epic bookworm  
_

**_D7- (Lumber)_**

**_1. Decon Crow, 17, male. Bowserboy129  
_**

**_2. Jaelyn "Jae" Nicole Analetto, 15, female. SpunkyFun  
_**

_**3. Damien Andrews, 16, male. Jammerock2000**  
_

_**D8- (Textiles)**_

_1. Damon Grey, 18, male. sportygirl123 **  
**_

_2. Dan Axton, 17, male. Jammerock2000  
_

**_3. Alicia Ludwig, 13, female. the epic bookworm  
_**

**_D9- (Grain)_**

**_1. Asher Lightwood, 17, male. Rikachan101  
_**

**_2. Aeris Lockhart, 15, female. Rikachan101  
_**

**_3. Fiona Ryder, 17, female. sportygirl123  
_**

**_D10- (Livestock)_**

_**1. Nick DiLaurnetis, 16, male. CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal**  
_

_2. Jak Crenshaw, 17, male. Jammerock2000  
_

_**3. Leo Rivers, 16, male. WhyNotDream**  
_

_**D11- (Agriculture)**_

_1. Skylar Mitchell, 14, female. Jammerock2000  
_

_2. Kayla Baker, 16, female. Jammerock2000_**_  
_**

_**3. Sage Birr, 17, male. the epic bookworm**  
_

_**D12- (Mining)**_

**_1. Krumr Strongthews, 18, male. CapitolRules  
_**

**_2. Carlyn Hansen, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_3. Astrid Levine, 15/16, female. CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal_**


	21. Chapter 21: Twenty-One Left to Kill

_My computer totally stopped working so this is late :-/_

_TRIBUTES. I need them._

* * *

I said remember this moment, in the back of my mind  
The time we stood with our shaking hands  
The crowds in stands went wild  
We were the Kings and the Queens  
And they read off our names  
The night you danced like you knew our lives  
Would never be the same  
You held your head like a hero  
On a history book page  
It was the end of a decade  
But the start of an age

**"Long Live" by Taylor Swift**

* * *

**_D12- 16- (Astrid Levine)_**

I don't know what's going on. I hardly know where I am. Is anyone near me? Should I be running? What do I have to fear? Where is Mother? Where is Father? Where is Cara, my friend? Why do I hurt so much? How long have I been here? I feel so disoriented and want to figure things out _right now_ but I can't move. My head aches. It screams with pain, and I think I might be screaming too but I can't be sure.

How did it come to this?

I have nothing with me. My throat is dry and a little raw, even… I must be screaming, crying out, asking for someone to end the pain… So why haven't they? Maybe it's just my imagination. My stomach gurgles and cries, longing to be filled. I am vaguely—oh, _so_ vaguely—aware of a dim moan. Is that me? Is that why my throat is raw? Have I been moaning this low, inhuman noise these last couple…hours? Days? _Weeks?_ No—I'd be dead in five days to a week. And surely I'm not well-hidden. Which brings me back to thinking about what I don't know: I don't know where I am.

Something different. My eyes aren't open but I can hear more than the moaning. It's fuzzy and distant but it's there. I'm aware that I'm sweating madly… Or maybe it's just raining. My throat. My stomach. My head. My everything. Oh, who knows if I'm hearing something different or if I'm just wishing I did? My throat, my head, my everything… It's a repeated thought that I can't get rid of, a silent moan that I can't let out of my mouth because I don't think I could speak if I tried to.

"—really! She's hidden, kinda." I want to crack my eyes open, because now I know I've heard something. A voice. It's not as distant as I thought; in fact, it gets closer with every single word spoken. I'm not even aware enough of my surroundings to register that I should probably be afraid. I'm going to die. But then, won't the pain end? Hasn't death been what I've wanting? No. I want the pain to end. But I want to live, too.

"Can she talk?" another voice asks. Both of the voices are male. The second voice is kinder, though, like he values finding me. Like I'm a treasure. The first voice sounded annoyed and weary, like he doesn't have time to deal with me, to deal with some idiot girl who he randomly found, sprawled across the ground, with nothing he can steal. Maybe that isn't exactly what he's thinking, but he's rude probably. I don't like him already.

"Should we kill her?" a third voice asks, and now I'm scared.

"Shut up, Decon!" the kind voice snaps at the person who wants to kill me. I feel him kneeling down next to me; I feel the soft ground underneath me shift slightly. "Oh…look at you. You're really properly beat up, aren't you?"

I will my eyes open, and my head aches instantly worse than it has since the bloodbath. Hazel eyes greet me—warm, soft hazel eyes that ask me to feel better, that beg me to show their owner that I will be alright. His fair-skinned hand reaches out to me and he scoops me up, standing up. I let out a shriek, and he apologizes immediately in his caring voice. He will make it okay. He will make everything better. I know from the way he holds me that he wants to do this, but I find it so odd that he cares here. In the arena.

The arena, the arena. My mind rejects the idea that I am in the arena and all I want to do is believe that, like before, my home was nearby. I was never reaped. And this boy never found me. None of them did. His eyes, no matter how hazel or how soft, are the eyes of a killer's. My enemy's eyes. I shouldn't trust him, and I don't.

"Hello?" he asks softly. "Can you speak? We'll get you all fixed up, but it's raining right now."

I open my mouth slightly to talk but realize I have nothing to say. And then I realize that I _can_ talk. Everything I'd been mulling over—all the pain and the disabilities that confused me—were all figments of my imagination. I am pretty much fine, besides the raging, growing migraine, my stomach that begs for me to eat something, my throat that screams for liquid, and pretty much everything else…

My brain finally processes "raining," and I open my mouth wider, letting the rainwater slip into my mouth. It's hardly enough, but it's wet, clean water, and I'll take it over dying of dehydration.

"What's your name?" the boy holding me asks. The two boys behind him are mixtures of curiosity and anger and impatience.

"Astrid," I tell him feebly. My weak voice certainly matches my physical frailness.

"_Astrid?_" one of the bows squawks. "Not something like—like…Amelia or Violet or _Sunshine?_" The boy holding me frowns and looks back at the boy who said this. "Oh, please!" he says. "You look at her already like a work of art. Not like an _Astrid._"

"I look at her like a miracle because obviously she is, to still be alive." The boy rolls his eyes. Really, he's not a boy. He's too old to be a boy; he's a least seventeen… I'd consider him more of a man than a boy. "She'll die just like the rest of us eventually," the _man_ mutters pessimistically, and I cringe away from his words. How can he be so nice, only to say something so terrible? "Astrid isn't a bad name."

"What's…yours?" I ask him hesitantly.

"Nick," he tells me. "And behind me are Idiot and Jackass. Idiot, Jackass, and I are quite happy to be of your acquaintance." He smiles slightly, and so do I. "Let's get you cleaned up. No offense or anything, but honestly, Astrid, you look hideous."

* * *

_**D7- 15- (Jae Analetto)**_

I think that I'm nice and I am selfless because I want someone to see me and think that they want to protect me. I want someone to look at me and think me worthy of his care and affection. I want them to think that I deserve their arms around me and their strength towards anyone against me. I crave for them to desire to keep me safe and alive like I keep my siblings alive. At least, I help to keep them alive alongside my mother. And perhaps I am merely averagely selfless, but I want to see myself as more because that's what I want others to see me as.

My logic is weird, I'm sure, but it drives me sometimes to complete that last hour of work, hoping that that handsome man over there cutting up wood with my friend Jack will notice me and think that maybe, just maybe, he'll talk to me tomorrow. And it's not even love as in the kind where you kiss someone and marry someone that I want. I sort of just want what I lost five years ago when my dad left. I simply want his love again, his protection and his fatherliness. I know he was never the best father, obviously, but I wish he were. I wish he had stayed so I could've crawled in his lap for another year or so until I was absolutely too big. So I could say to him that I love him and he could say it back. So I could hug him and think that this was what the world was supposed to be like: like my dad. So I could see him and think that he was one of the few people who would always hold me.

Now I have no one to hold me, and I think that's what I really want. I want to fill the void. I want arms around my shoulders. I want someone to genuinely care for me through all of my flaws and my mistakes and my episodes of stupidity. I want them to smile and tell me not to blush when I get embarrassed because they love me and they think I shouldn't ever have to be embarrassed, or worried or scared or hungry. I am more of a people person than I usually give myself credit for, but somehow despite this fact, I am too shy to allow many people into my life.

Maybe that's why I stopped under the tree. Maybe that's why I didn't just kill the boy when he asked me to.

Now he lays below me as I care for him, unconscious. He had fallen out of his tree, but fortunately he hadn't fallen far. I suspect that his ankle is twisted or sprained, and he already beforehand had a large gash in his leg. Could it be called a gash? It looks like someone had a long sword or spear, shoved it in his leg, and when the person yanked away the weapon twisted around a bit in the boy's flesh.

His face is drenched in sweat. I wipe the sweat away with the bottom of my shirt. His eyes flutter when I do, and I freeze, as if when he wakes up he'll kill me. I know he can't; he's far too weak. But I am paranoid and afraid, so any movement I hadn't expected prior to it happening sets me on edge and gets my eyes skirting around the area, my heart thumping madly in my chest.

His eyes open all the way now and he moans in pain. His left leg is the main source of his pain, what with the twisted/sprained ankle and the big, almost circular, nasty wound in his calf. He must be extremely thirsty but I'm afraid to waste any water yet, when it seems like there is so little water in this entire arena. I will give him a gulp soon, when I know he needs it more than anything else, but until then I'll fix what I can.

"Are…" he gets out weakly, the low mumble, the unintelligible form of a word, coming out in such a way that it seems like his entire body shatters with just the movement of his lips; his eyebrows furrow, his eyes close tightly, and his face is completely contorted with unimaginable pain that I wish I could erase from his existence because it seems like he might just explode.

"Ugh," he says after a second, and his voice is composed now. "Headache."

I look at him, shocked. "_Headache?_" I ask incredulously. That look of pure and utter agony…was for simply a "headache"?

The boy nods. "Ooh, my leg hurts too." He sits up slowly, winces a little, and then makes a move to sit up. I quickly stop him by putting my hand on his shoulder and gently pushing him back towards the ground. He rolls his eyes, looking at me warily and then glancing all around. He looks at me like he's suspicious; like he doesn't think we're pretty much allies if I went to all this effort to help him with his wounds. But he does seem annoyed and rather confused, asking, "What?"

"Your ankle—it's—"

He frowns and reaches down, touching his ankle lightly. "Ooh," he groans again, but shrugs. "I can walk on it. It may hurt for a bit but I have to walk on it." He scoots back, just slightly. Maybe he only leans back. "Now, who are you?"

I raise my eyebrow. "Well…Jae from District Seven." I stick my right hand out to him slowly.

His right hand returns slower, and we exchange a tentative, weary, untrusting handshake. "I'm Leo," he tells me, and I think I might recognize the name from reapings or something—maybe training scores. I know he's from District Ten, though—or I think I do. "Leo" just rings a bell in the District Ten part of events. "I'm from District Ten," he continues, confirming my theories about his district.

We both let our hands drop, and sit there a second. "Are we allies?" Leo asks after a second.

"Oh," I say, and nod. "Yeah, um… Yeah, we are."

"Then can I please have some water? I'm going to die of dehydration before we can even worry about this big thing on my calf."

I smile slightly at his dark humor—is it humor?—and pull out a water bottle.

* * *

_**D5- 18- (Anya Saitov)**_

Having no ally doesn't faze me in the least, seeing as that was my original strategy in the first place. Being allied is being tied down with more and less chance of survival—the others' skills are things I can use to my advantage, but I have to share my food, water, and resources. It's being stuck to them, having to wait until they wake up to get going but being safer at night with a watch system. It's waiting for them to catch their breath but having them have a look around to ensure our safety while I catch mine.

I didn't spend a day in the arena with an ally. I spent probably five minutes, waiting, endangering my self. And now, free to roam as a please, not having to listen to my old ally's opinions on killing or on anything he thought, really, I'm glad he didn't live, no matter how cruel that sounds. I am naturally a considerably cruel-sounding person and I don't really care that I am or what anyone thinks of that. _I_ think what _I_ think, and I say what I say, and I do what I do.

At first I skirted around the mountains a bit on the first night, looking for lost tributes that stayed, and slept there. Then I moved out to the woods, so far off, intrigued and knowing that, though it seemed there wouldn't be, water sources would be found along the way. Gamemakers wouldn't want everyone to die of dehydration or starvation, so I entrusted their need, their yearning, for violence and drama. Their predictability—or, rather, what I can predict with common sense—has become my only ally.

I have nothing to stay close to or skirt along next to as I make my long journey towards the distant, far-off woods, tempting the tributes. I have run through a number of possibilities. It could be a trap. It could be an illusion. It could be too dangerous to go into—could be just another way to get us so close together, so visible to one another, so vulnerable. The Gamemakers are certainly setting us for something that they're planning—but what? They're not just handing us a luxury. Not just telling us, "We'll give you everything you want as long as you make the trek to it." No one's going to look for fights except the Careers when they're zipping towards the woods.

But who _looks_ for fights anyway?

They'll want bloodshed. And soon. We're down to a disappointing twenty-five tributes. Surely the bloodbath was spectacular, but not enough, not enough. Only ten deaths at the bloodbath must've let them so far down that they're planning as I step forward, forward, forward to bring us to each other, to bring blood down the hills, blood to the floor, a cannon to our ears, a face up in the sky. They need a death. They need two. They need three, four, five. Day Two had better be spectacular, they must think.

Night falls in the arena slowly. Evening is long and drawn out, a tedious time between night when I can go a little faster and make a bit more noise, drawing nearer to the time between midnight and dawn when I will sleep away the drowsiness and fatigue brought down to me by the raging sun, the roaring heat, the endless footsteps, and the nonstop calculations, analyzing the every plot that might be approved by the Head Gamemaker, if that's how Gamemaking goes.

And then I spot them.

A boy and a girl. I can't tell how old they are, but I can see red hair in the darkening arena. Fiery red hair. I break into a run, drawing my sword from its nice little pocket in my backpack. We're so close. We're yards apart. A monstrous hill that killed the my legs, left them aching and sore after I climbed it, ran up it, was all that separates us before. And now it's inevitable: We have to fight. If we don't fight, the Gamemakers will make us fight.

So I go after the girl first because it's logical. She will obviously be the easier one to kill, being smaller. Getting her out of the way and dealing with the big guy while doing so seems like all I can do. This is the disadvantage to being alone: If I find myself in a confrontation where there's no way I _can't_ fight, and I'm faced with two or more allied people, I'm outnumbered. There is no one to watch my back and say, "You take that one. I'll take this one," and deal with the other tribute himself or herself.

Sword connects with sword. Hers is longer, slightly, but it looks like that makes it heavier, harder to wield with her small form.

The boy's knife comes at me. I swing my sword blindly, trying to get him and his weapon far away from my flesh, trying to wound him or kill him. It doesn't affect me—killing. It's just another thing I have to do.

My sword hits the boy. He cries out. Blood spurts from his side, his chest, flows down his stomach and reaches his legs. Taking this opportunity, the brief second of opening where the girl is distracted by the fact that the boy is now wounded and falling towards the ground, and where the boy is too hurt to fight back, I snap my sword down at his neck, slicing a major vein. A jugular vein. I pull my sword further and hit another. The life-sustaining veins spit blood. He lets out an inhuman gargle.

The cannon fires.

"Sage!" the girl whines, and I feel a sharp pain in my stomach. I jerk away before she can deepen the cut and feel sick as I see blood pour down me. _No, no, no. I'm not going to die…_ I lunge at the girl, but she backs away, eyes wide. Swords clash again, and she's going further and further away. As she nears her backpack, she leans down briefly to snatch it up so she can dart, and I take this time to poke my sword at her. "Aaah!" Crimson liquid spills down her face. I don't see what I hit before she's sprinting away.

As soon as she's make her ascent up the giant hill, I know that I don't want to follow her. My stomach hurts very badly, and I need to assess my wound. My legs still yearn for rest. So I make my way through a small valley-like dip between the two big, steep hills on either side of me. As soon as I'm a hundred or so yards from the body and I absolutely have to stop, check on my bleeding stomach that I'm putting pressure on, let my feet and legs have a break, and hydrate as well as feed myself, a hovercraft descends and pulls up the body.

I'll live. I'll live.

A parachute falls from the sky towards me. I gladly open it. The size of it tells me I don't have a lot of sponsors; people are just impressed with my fighting. Bandages. No painkillers, no food, no water. But I appreciate the bandages nonetheless. I raise my shirt and wrap the bandages tightly, wincing while I do so, and am glad to find that the bleeding has stopped. The bandages' pressure will help me.

I'll live.

* * *

**_D1- 17- (Adelina Summerfield)_**

Everyone is discouraged when they hear the cannon fire.

"Daphne!" Dante says, demanding my sister's attention. "We have to get back to the Cornucopia, Daphne, we have to. We've leftVixen there for two days, and we've not killed anyone. We didn't pack enough food for a long trip, and I'm not starving. We have to get back; we have to."

Dante, the pest, the rat, the annoying weasel he is, has been whining and pouting the whole trip. We haven't killed anyone. It truly sucks, because two people have died at others' hands since the bloodbath, and the superiors of the arena are left without kills. So his whining, pestering, and griping are all very, very, _very_ motivating for us: With each and every aggravating word he says, each of us feels the desire to kill growing stronger and stronger. I even see calm, patient Jackson growing frustrated with Dante.

"Dante," Daphne says reasonably, slowly, her voice even, and she's obviously trying not to explode on him, "we will return to the Cornucopia, for the _trillionth time_, when one of us gets a damn kill. Okay?"

Eyes swivel to Daphne. Tension is rising, especially between the District Six idiot and the District One girls. Dante sometimes forgets to hide his hatred and sends us blatant, though indirect, messages that he hates Gleam, Daphne, and me that all of us pick up on. It's either Stone or me that probably hates him the most or me. Or maybe Gleam. Vixen is guarding the Cornucopia, and Azaleigh, Daphne, and Jackson are too patient to know if they hate him like Stone, Gleam, and I do. So the fact that she snaps at him so openly is kind of surprising, considering the fact that she's the leader of the Careers and she's supposed to keep tension down.

"I get it," Dante grumbles, falling to the back, carrying all of the heavy stuff that Jackson isn't since he's at the bottom of the pyramid of Careers. Jackson is the strongest so he carries a few sleeping bags—his because it's his, Stone's because she's small and knows how to insult you so much that you get confused and do stuff for her, and Azaleigh's because he obviously likes her—and a backpack full of lots of food, lots of water, and his weapons.

I have orange juice in my pack. I took it because I thought it would be nice to have that with a meal. I drink water while we're walking, but I don't want to have to choke down whatever we hunt if that's what it comes down to with water; I'd like a bit of luxury, and I found it lying in the Cornucopia: a simple little bottle, like the water bottles, filled with the yellow-orange, sweet drink. I also have my weapons and snacks for eating along the trip, like all of us do in our backpacks. We packed for three days, and since it's day three and we took off on day one, we do need to get back and restock.

But not before killing. Never before killing.

"Hush just a sec," Azaleigh suddenly says, and we all look over at her. She stops so we stop. Jackson is particularly close to her, the backs of their hands touching. When they were walking, they might have been holding hands. It would be impossible not to just hold hands when they are so close, their arms swinging as they moved along the trek, the long, long journey. They'll be getting more sponsors for that. I could've had that with Beck, but it would've been fake caring and affection. I wouldn't have cared about the fakeness. But the relationship Azaleigh and Jackson tenderly hold between each other seems genuine.

"What is it?" Jackson asks in a low voice, just above a whisper.

"Hush," Azaleigh repeats, her eyes scanning around. She frowns. "I swear I heard tributes."

All of ours eyes light up. "You did," I say. "If you think you did, you did. They must've heard us coming and now they're quiet."

Gleam nods in agreement. "Yeah," she says, nodding. "Adelina's right."

Daphne creeps forward, lowering her voice so only the group of us can hear. "Be absolutely silent. Drop everything but your weapons. Two people will stay back in case whoever's out there comes this way. We don't make noise 'til we spot the tribute, got me?"

Excited nods.

"Who's staying back?" I ask, knowing she won't choose me to stay back.

Daphne looks around at all of us. "Any volunteers?" No one volunteers. "I didn't think so. Dante and, uh, Jackson. Jack, if he darts, he's officially out of the Careers. Kill him. If he tries to steal anything, hurt him. If he draws a weapon on him, you call for one of us and we'll _help _you kill him."

The threat gets across to Dante. I can tell by the look on his face that he won't be trying anything special. I like the way my twin has worded it too: She's told Dante the exact rank of crimes he can commit against his _very_ generous host Careers. Theft, pain. Escape, quick death. Trying to kill a real, official Career…painful, painful death.

Though I know he won't try anything, I see something light up in my eyes, and from that moment on, I know I have to keep an eye out for him. If we're ever not watching, he may try something. If he kills another Career, I'll kill him. If he kills my sister, I'll hunt him down to the end of the Earth to slaughter him and make him beg for mercy with his dying breath. He won't be killing me.

We take off with just our weapons, sprinting through a copse that turns into a small—very small—area of tall trees, growing randomly in the midst of the grassy area.

It reminds me of something we learned about at school, in one of the few things they taught us that had nothing to do with the Games and District One and the district's industry. It was Panem History or some class like that. We were talking in school about arenas, and the different landscapes and terrains the Gamemakers use. One was a savannah. I remember the definition: open, flat lands with scattered trees and bushes. The terrain this year doesn't exactly meet a savannah's criteria because it's not flat, and part of it is woods, mountains, desert, and river—and there are some pretty random trees thrown into the grassland. But the little thicket reminds me of that.

We spot the two people just outside the group of ten or eleven big trees. I smirk. One of them is _mine._

One of them is also injured. He's not mine. I want a fight.

But Stone and Gleam are already running, an unlikely pair to fight, towards the uninjured girl. The boy, who looks like he's having trouble walking as they run away from the four of us, is now my only option. I guess I'll take what I can get. I send Daphne a look that asks, _We're in this together, right?_ and she nods. We pick up speed, racing towards the boy. Gleam and Stone reach the girl and take her to the ground easily, their combined efforts unbeatable. Her cannon fires already.

"You take him down," Daphne says.

I look over at her. I love her to death, my sister. She's my best friend, she's always been there, and she's just great. But, in all honesty, and I mean this in the kindest way possible…she's a wimp. She always seems hesitant with violence. She must've decided that she doesn't want to do this and chickened out. I roll my eyes and hope she doesn't see it, give her a big nod, and finish the short, short sprint to the boy.

I swing my katana smoothly, the sharp, single-edged weapon slicing right through his flesh, bringing a load of blood down his back. He cries out and falls forward. I collapse over him, driving my knee into his back, and plunge my katana smoothly into him where his heart his. He screams, an ugly, ugly noise, and then it's over: He's dead. We've killed. We can go back to the Cornucopia.

I let out a content breath and step away, go back to my supplies with Daphne, Gleam, and Stone, knowing that a hovercraft will soon come down and pick the bodies up, take them away from the arena. Knowing that I killed one of them. I'm actually glad that my sister's a bit of wimp; the glory is so much nicer to revel in when you know that you did something entirely on your own.

Twenty-one tributes are left to kill.

* * *

**Tributes whose names are in bold are alive:**

_**D1- (Luxuries)  
**_

**_1. Gleam Diode, 18, female. Megalor9  
_**

**_2. Adelina Summerfield, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_3. Daphne Summerfield, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_D2- (Masonry)_**

_**1. Azaleigh Rommel, 16, female. Araka-chan**  
_

_2. Beck Ferrari, 18, male. WhyNotDream  
_

**_3. Stonesia "Stone" Zhunder, 16, female. XOXOFutureFame  
_**

**_D3- (Technology)_**

**_1. Forrest Montgomery, 17, WhyNotDream  
_**

_**2. Calypso Oswald, 14, female. WhyNotDream**  
_

_3. Rylan "Ry" Ashmore, 14, male. the epic bookworm  
_

**_D4- (Fishing)_**

**_1. Vixen Payne, 17, female. jblonde123  
_**

**_2. Nelly Carter, 13, female. Bowserboy129  
_**

**_3. Jackson Brothel, 17, male. Araka-chan  
_**

**_D5- (Power) _**

_**1. Anya Saitov, 18, female. the epic bookworm**  
_

_2. Allegra Ride, 12, female. WhyNotDream  
_

_3. Tenne Bradhe, 18, male. BlueYoshGuy  
_

_**D6- (Transportation)**_

**_1. Dante Kyanide, 17, male. Megalor9  
_**

_2. Cade Allens, 17, male. bijtjen  
_

_3. Phoenix Grant, 18, male. the epic bookworm  
_

**_D7- (Lumber)_**

**_1. Decon Crow, 17, male. Bowserboy129  
_**

_2. Jaelyn "Jae" Nicole Analetto, 15, female. SpunkyFun_**_  
_**

_**3. Damien Andrews, 16, male. Jammerock2000**  
_

_**D8- (Textiles)**_

_1. Damon Grey, 18, male. sportygirl123 **  
**_

_2. Dan Axton, 17, male. Jammerock2000  
_

**_3. Alicia Ludwig, 13, female. the epic bookworm  
_**

**_D9- (Grain)_**

**_1. Asher Lightwood, 17, male. Rikachan101  
_**

**_2. Aeris Lockhart, 15, female. Rikachan101  
_**

**_3. Fiona Ryder, 17, female. sportygirl123  
_**

**_D10- (Livestock)_**

_**1. Nick DiLaurnetis, 16, male. CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal**  
_

_2. Jak Crenshaw, 17, male. Jammerock2000  
_

_3. Leo Rivers, 16, male. WhyNotDream  
_

_**D11- (Agriculture)**_

_1. Skylar Mitchell, 14, female. Jammerock2000  
_

_2. Kayla Baker, 16, female. Jammerock2000_**_  
_**

_3. Sage Birr, 17, male. the epic bookworm  
_

_**D12- (Mining)**_

**_1. Krumr Strongthews, 18, male. CapitolRules  
_**

**_2. Carlyn Hansen, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_3. Astrid Levine, 15/16, female. CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal_**


	22. Chapter 22: Freedom

_This isn't all of day four because I still have people to kill. But I just thought that the ending was a pretty okay place to stop, considering... Yup. Just yup._

* * *

__Between two lungs it was released,

The breath that passed from you to me,

That flew between us as we slept...

**"Between Two Lungs" by Florence and the Machine**

* * *

**_D3- 14- (Calypso Oswald)_**

Nighttime spreads over day three in the arena. Three cannons have gone off today, and when the Anthem plays, my head jerks up. District One, of course, is unharmed, as well as Two and Four. When the first face is from District Seven, I don't know what to feel that Forrest didn't die. Relief, I guess. If it's not me, and it's not Nelly, I guess I want the victor to be him. It would benefit my family, and altogether he seems like a pretty cool, nice guy.

"No Careers," Nelly mutters.

I look over at her from my dangerous spot of lying on the ground. We had no choice. There's nowhere to hide in the grassiness, except the occasional spurt of trees or shrubbery. "What did you expect?" I ask coldly. The tone I use isn't cold, but the words feel like they are. I shouldn't be able to feel such fear for my own life, out here in the open, hating anyone who is maybe talking about District Three right now and killing me, and still be able to talk so smoothly about the death of others, like it's nothing, but it is. It's totally, completely something.

She shrugs, uncaring. She's always uncaring. When she's not uncaring, she's sad or vicious and determined. "Ooh, look," she says, her eyes lighting a little bit.

"What?" I ask, leaning over from my spot to look at what she has in her hand.

"A spider," she says, fascinated. She pokes the bug lightly, and I wrinkle my nose immediately.

"Ew!" I exclaim quietly, shrinking back to where I was lying before.

Nelly smiles and rolls her eyes at me. "You're like my friend Stacy," she says, even giggling a little bit before setting the spider down. "She hates them. I love spiders. It's all about being delicate."

"You _poked_ it," I protest, watching as it scurries away on its eight long, black legs.

"And identification," she adds, emphasizing these words. "That was a daddy longlegs spider. They're actually really, really poisonous, but their mouths are so small that they can't bite anyone." I knew this. I allow her to have her moment.

"What if, like, a daddy longlegs was weird and big?" I ask, and feel relieved when the long-legged creature disappears from my view. "Or, like, mates with a big spider?" I thought these questions might amuse her and the Capitol. A bit of conversation between allies, joking around and stuff, is sometimes entertaining to them, I think, because it's usually featured fully on our screens instead of cut short or missed entirely.

Nelly frowns. "Not possible," she says. She seems proud to sound so smart, and I let her feel pride, knowing she's not exactly right in the head at the moment. If she can enjoy anything, I want her to be able to enjoy it before she dies or goes completely insane when she leaves the arena. "And if it were…" She grins widely, wiggling her fingers in a way that is supposed to be eerie but she obviously knows it's not. "It would be the end of the world!"

I smile slightly.

"Did you know that the common house spider can be mistaken for a really, super-duper poisonous spider?" she tells me, and a prideful look returns to her silly face. She has a nice face. It looks calm and like a smile or a grin or a playful, joking smirk always belongs on it. One look at her face when she's not sad or ready and tensed to kill someone immediately lets anyone looking at her know that she's an easy person to get along with. I know she's spiraling into insanity; I can see it. And that makes me kind of sad, because she's a cool, funny girl. I would love to be friends with her if we were from the same district.

I shake my head. "I didn't." I did. Again, I'll let her have her moment.

Nelly's grin widens. "Aren't spiders just cool, though? Even if you're scared of them or something, you have to admit, they're pretty cool."

I shrug and nod. "They are particularly fascinating sometimes, like—"

She stops me. "Please don't go off on a District Three ramble about everything scientific in the world," she begs, rolling her eyes. "I'm not smart enough to keep up."

I'm not exactly offended, but I don't like that she thinks this, like all District Three citizens run on the same mind. Like we're all functioning on the same hard drive or something. "That's stereotypical, because—"

"You've already lost me."

I keep going anyway, intent on getting my point across and frustrated with her. "—I personally know a few brain-dead idiots from my district, and not all of us actually even like technology and science. Those are the people that do the other necessary jobs, like going into the field of medicine or working in shops or teaching. But, you know, if you teach, I guess—"

"Look, I think the daddy longlegs spider is coming back," she says, extending her hand to something in the grass that is shadowed by darkness.

"—I guess you have to like science and technology because you're teaching it. I don't know what I want to be when I grow up…" Now I'm the one to stop myself, trailing off slowly and looking down. _Nothing, _I think bitterly. _I'm either going to be a guilty victor or I won't grow up._ "Um." I let out a breath and extend my hand, palm up. "Can I hold it?"

Nelly smiles and nods. She deftly picks it up. It's obvious her liking of spiders isn't just a small thing; she's enjoyed them and picked them up and learned about them through studying their behaviors herself all her life, a deduction made so easily due to the way she simply looks at the spider and the way she slides it so carefully into my palm, I feel like an idiot when it tickles my hand and I drop it. But she simply shrugs, smiles slightly, and lies down, looking up at the starry sky.

I watch the daddy longlegs run away from me. Its legs are cool, and like the name suggests, its legs are long, slender things that easily carry the small body.

"Calypso?" she asks when I settle back down, using the backpack as a pillow.

I pause. I'm afraid of what she might say. I can't comfort her because I'm terrified of so many things right now myself. "Yes?" I respond, deciding to not pretend to be asleep already.

"I'm hungry," she says quietly, sounding like she's stifling the urge to break down again. I can't deal with that, not now, not like this, not where we are. Not with Kayla, Skylar, and Allegra gone. _Please, please, please don't break down,_ I beg her silently. "We're…running out of food."

We don't have any. We finished it today. All we had was a loaf of bread and some berries we found on the trees that we were only half-certain were okay to eat. I don't want to tell her this, though. In the morning we will have no breakfast, and we're running low on water even though it poured on the night of day one. We won't have anything to fill our stomachs and we won't have much to quench our thirst. Dread fills me as I realize this myself. It's hard, knowing that you're fine now, and when you go to sleep, you'll be fine, but when you wake up you're going to be teetering over a cliff with death at the bottom.

"I know" is all I say.

"I'm…" She sighs. "Calypso?" she asks again.

"Nelly," I reply.

"Do you remember Ryan?"

The question is unexpected. "Um… You mean the boy from your district last year?" When Nelly mutters a yes, I continue: "Well, yeah."

"He was my best friend." I look over and see her face buried into her hands. I wait for her to say more, and when she doesn't, I flip over, close my eyes, and give her privacy.

* * *

**_D9- 16- (Aeris Lockhart)_**

My eyes open to the sound of birds tweeting somewhere up in the mountain that we're hiding in, Asher and I. With the Careers back, our well-plotted but terrifying chance of stealing from the Cornucopia evaporates, and so does our chance for both of us to get some peaceful sleep until they're gone. Every time we step out of the cave, fear eats at us and we find ways to hurriedly run back in, sometimes without accomplishing one thing that we both desperately know we need to accomplish.

"You up?" Asher asks. I look over at him. His stormy, clouded gray eyes seem like they hold an entirely new fog that's just rolled into them. Something is troubling him, and whatever it is will trouble me because we're allies. I decide not to ask, wanting at least a moment's worth of quietness and relief in this closed-in, dangerous, bloody hell that we've been slammed into without choice. "_They're_ up."

"Great." I sit up slowly. No chance in getting a relaxing moment now with that sentence thrown at me before I'm even completely awake. I rub my eyes, stretch a little, and yawn. It's perfectly fine outside, but here in the dark, damp cave, it feels chilly. "I'm up. I'm tired. We got anything to eat?"

"No," Asher tells me gloomily. "But the Careers and packing up like they're not coming back. We'll probably get some tonight."

"Before the sun goes down and it's too dark to see?" I ask him, to which he rolls his eyes and nods.

"Yes, Aeris," he mutters.

I sigh and pull out my canteen. By now it's almost gone. I need to get down to the water in the valley. I take my last big gulp and hope that I will get a chance to go down there, and if not Asher will. And if even that fails, maybe, just maybe, luck will be on our side and it will rain so we can fill our canteens and water bottles with rainwater. I toss the empty container into my backpack, scoot my pack against the wall, and lean against it.

Asher yawns. "Hey…" he says, before letting out a big yawn again. When he doesn't say anything else, I frown, my eyebrows furrowing, and don't say anything either. What a pathetic way to start up conversation. I'm not thinking of the topic and if all he's going to supply is one word when I hardly even want to or care to talk, then he can just talk to himself because I'm hungry and tired and thirsty and irritable and if he got to talking to me he probably wouldn't even want to by the time I got my first word in. "So, um, do you think we should stay here? In the cave, I mean."

I look over at him. That's kind of better. "Yeah," I tell him with a curt nod. "Where else would we go?"

"The woods…" he says, uncertain of himself.

"No. No way," I say in a way that totally shuts the idea down and I hope I make it sound like it's locked up and never to be opened again. No. Not the woods. He gives me a questioning look, and I sigh like he's stupid because I think it's really obvious why we exactly can't go to the woods. But I wait a second, take a breath, and explain it to him anyway. Maybe if I don't, he'll get as frustrated with everything as I am. "We're too far away. Maybe if, you know, we had resources and sponsors like the Careers, sure—we could maybe make it. But we don't, unfortunately, and so no. We're not. And besides, look at it. Look at the way there. We'd be dead in a minute."

He rolls his eyes overdramatically, and just the tiniest hint of a smile rises to my lips. He smiles when he sees this, but I don't take the smile away. "Fine, _Mother…_" I glare at him playfully, though now I'm fighting a grin. He chuckles at me like he can read my every thought as though it's written in words all over my face or presented in lettering in my icy blue eyes that I sometimes catch him staring at, seeming fascinated, almost.

"Now, Son, it's time for bed," I say.

"It was actually funny when I did it," he tells me, adding a _psh_ noise. "Not when you did it…"

"It was funny when you did it because I haven't heard a joke in weeks and anything would be funny to me," I retort, mock-glaring at him and adding his _psh_ sound. I smile and he chuckles at me again. His smile is nice. As soon as the thought is processed in my head, I shrink away from it, trying to scrape it up and throw it away, just get it away from me. But it's there, and it doesn't go away until he looks down and his smile fades.

"What?" I ask quietly as the fog returns to his eyes.

"Nothing…"

"What?" I repeat insistently, wanting to force it out of him, wanting to know why he seems almost worried, and maybe the slightest bit apprehensive about something that is fluttering around in his head, some odd thought that he thinks maybe I don't know and he doesn't want to burden me with to think about. And every stressful thought is like a wound afflicted to our skin; it eats away at us and brings us pain. So maybe I should appreciate that his gray eyes are nervous and mine are not, but I don't. I can't let it go.

"Aeris…" He sighs heavily. "Nothing, okay?"

"Asher…" I mimic his tone. "Tell me, okay?"

He rolls his eyes. "Nothing. Just…I'm thinking about…I don't know. Your eyes."

This surprises me. I couldn't have anticipated what he was going to say, really, but I had some sort of forethought on at least along the lines of what was going through his eyes. My eyes? Nope, there was no possible way for me to see that coming. Why would my eyes be frustrating him? Why would my eyes be the cause of this anxious jerkiness and his odd stuttering and his drifting off into space from time to time?

"My…er…_eyes?_"

Asher nods and looks at the floor, and hits me right then and there. I'm such an idiot. He _likes_ me. That's why he's thinking about my eyes! That's why he's started to look at me funny! He likes my eyes. And he must not know if I like him back so he's not saying anything and it's the Games so of course nothing can happen. My mind starts to go at three thousand miles her hour as I realize this and a blush comes to his cheeks.

What do I do? What do I say? What do we do? Do we stay allies? Do I like him back? Do we kiss now? Are we expected to carry out a relationship? Am I supposed to fall into his arms like a lost little damsel in distress? Will it get us food, water, anything? Will we ever really have the simple, easy friendship we had just yesterday where we could talk and not really worry? Will we get sponsors? Will I ever stop needing to know the answers to all these questions that are flitting through my head at eight miles a second?

I deserve this. I do like him. Maybe I can't have him forever, but I should take this opportunity to truly feel more than guilt and bottled-up rage. This is my time to not be the ice queen, to not be so cold and distant to all of society. This is my chance to _feel_ and to show the Capitol that yeah, I'm me. And yeah, I'm going go take this. It's not exactly an act of defiance and I don't want it to be. I don't want to be a rebel. I just want to take this fortuity and use it while I can, because I want it, so I'll have it.

"I like your eyes too," I say quietly, and blush too. He looks up and I smile slightly.

I'm not going to love him. I might not even kiss him. But I do lean over and take his hand. I hold it, and it's the best I've felt in a while.

* * *

**_D4- 17- (Vixen Payne)_**

When everyone finally returned really late last night, I was so relieved. I wasn't worried about them; the only one I even care about is Jackson. But being alone, stuck back at the Cornucopia, which is so totally devoid of any good action, for three days is aggravatingly dull. At least I was never hungry; I pigged out every night, eating what I would usually eat in District Four for a decent meal. I made hot chocolate. Everything was at my disposal.

Unfortunately, now I've heard word of their plans, since they're back: We're making a trek to some woods that you can kind of see between some of the mountains, far off in the distance. We're too far away to make the long, tiresome journey before we collapse and die because we'll have run out of food and water. And besides, if we make it, we'll be out of food or _dangerously_ low on it, and then we won't have enough for the way back…

Ew. Squirrel and rabbit and, like, wild bird meat…

"Daphne," Stone says, and it's obvious she's trying _really_ hard to be reasonable with her, "we can't…"

Adelina turns on her before Daphne can even blink. "Look, _bitch_—"

"Ade!" her twin exclaims, turning to her with widened eyes, not believing that her sister exploded like she did. "Oh, my God, Ade, calm down!"

I bite my lip. "Um…" I say. Everyone turns to me, like they've forgotten I exist. Maybe they have, as it has been a while since they've seen me, and a lot of them are _very_ self-absorbed snobs, so it wouldn't surprise me if they only somewhat knew that I was here, still a part of the Careers, still looking for my first kill… "We should all get to talk…" I scratch my head meekly.

"Vixen's right," Jackson says, and I wonder if all he ever does is supply a few words here and there, an agreement every once in a while.

Azaleigh nods. "I think we should go," she says. "I mean, everyone else is. Who knows what's in those woods?"

"Exactly!" Stone exclaims angrily. "I'm not starving for some half-brained idea, made with a half of a brain."

It takes a second for Daphne to register the insult, and she turns to Stone, unable to hold her calmness and contain her anger. Fury lights in her eyes, and she even dares to pull a knife on the sixteen-year-old, but she pulls one out too, and both of them glare at the other, seething, and neither saying anything, before Jackson lightly tells them that she thinks we should all talk like I said.

"Okay. I think we should," Gleam says, earning an accepting look from Adelina. Daphne looks relieved that everyone seems to be going against Stone, except me. I don't want to starve… Should I voice my opinion? It would make me safer during Stone's watch, but it could get me killed if Adelina decides to reflect on the day's happenings and remembers my speaking out against her and her sister.

"Listen, we _have_ to go," Adelina says, and Daphne gives a nod, signaling that she agrees with everything her sister says unless she tells us otherwise. "Everyone's going to the woods. We'll get no kills, and then we'll end up just killing each other when we're sure everybody else is dead, you know? And it'll be pathetic, right? So we've got to go out there to the woods!" Daphne nods again. She totally agrees.

And I kind of do too, now that I've heard her argument. It's true that we won't be killing anyone if we stay where we are, within food's reach, here at the Cornucopia. But it's also true that we could easily starve if we attempt the long road to the woods. We're already three days behind everyone else who is going, and the utter vastness of the arena is intimidating even without the thought of taking on a journey all the way across it in your head.

"I, um… I'd go either way," I admit with a shrug.

Jackson smiles slightly, but I don't know why. "Yeah. Yeah, me too."

Dante speaks up now. I wonder if he's this quiet when they're all out together. He probably is, considering how it's hard for Azaleigh and Jackson to get their opinions in when they're actual Careers because of Stone, Gleam, Daphne, and Adelina running their mouths off and just never stopping. I find myself missing the booming voice of Beck to get us to _shut the hell up_ _and listen._ We'd be a lot more orderly if someone was yelling at us, and Daphne's smart but she's not the yelling kind.

"I don't want to starve," Dante says, a crease in his brow, "but…if we devise a plan…"

"…to carry food," Daphne continues for him encouragingly, nodding. "Yes!"

"…then we won't starve," he adds to Daphne's unfinished continuance. "And we'll be able to kill too."

"Yes!" Adelina says, in a voice much like her twin's. "Yes, yes, yes! I thought of that before! I've _been_ thinking about it while _others_"—Stone, Jackson, and I earn pointed glares—"have been stupid. My idea is brilliant. I'd need help, though."

Smirks rise to Dante and Daphne's faces. "What's the plan?" Daphne asks eagerly. After a second of reluctance, Gleam, Azaleigh, Stone, and I all listen in too, and Jackson has been indifferently listening the whole time, holding Azaleigh's hand, swinging her hand, kissing her hand, studying her hand. A quiet, unspoken, roaring love is between the two, and it's so sweet that I almost feel bad that they can't keep it raging on forever, together, holding each other, and knowing without having to hear that love will always be there for them.

Or maybe I'm just missing Daniel too much and they like each other, the other romance being supplied by my fantasizing mind.

Neither of them will make it home, because I have a love like that that _I_ need to get back to. And I will. I know I will.

"See, it's kind of a really common idea, but no one else thought about it, which makes it ingenious…" And off Adelina goes in her arrogant rambling.

* * *

**_D12- 17- (Carlyn Hansen)_**

I watch Krumr's movements as he looks around for a place for us to hide and know that he's also looking for tributes to kill.

His strong arms, his tan skin, his spiky blonde hair that's dirty and messy from all the days in the arena. There are many things about the boy—no, he is most certainly, completely a man—that entice me to stay with him. If we're talking strictly in an appearance-based way, he's very, very hot, and I say that without shame. His icy, cold blue eyes are so logical and deep and angry and somewhere in there, I can see his pain, a fiery ache that pulls at him and turns into anger and sadism before it hits his heart. His arms and hands are deadly and strong and muscled. My neck could be snapped easily if his hands were placed on my head. The thrill that comes from that knowledge makes me want to infuriate him, knowing that he would never, ever kill me. If he were to hold my head, ever, it would be to keep it in place while he places a passionate kiss deeply onto my lips. The fact that he's falling in love with me, the emotionless, careless man, makes me feel powerful, especially since I will never return the favor.

And I also like that he understands me. He lets me be free. He lets me be _Carlyn Hansen_ and not just another pretty female. He lets me be the girl behind the curves and the blonde hair and the brown eyes. He lets me be me.

"Hey, big guy, found a place to go yet?" I ask. He turns around. There are the eyes. The cold, cruel, vicious eyes.

"Shut up," he snarls, and I find electricity zipping through me, fueling me to press further. "Let me think."

I raise a mocking eyebrow. "You have a brain to think with?" I retort. I feel much better now that my side has decided slowly to stop hurting. "That's new."

The bow on his shoulder jerks slightly, like he's about to use it to take out to frustration and annoyance that is me. His hand touches his axe, and that seems to calm him. Thrillingly dangerous sensations pile up in me. Calmed by violence, calmed by the remembrance of what it's like to kill someone with his beloved weapon, this man is indestructible. This man cannot be moved, cannot be manipulated.

Watch me do my work.

"Ooh, pretty boy getting mad, is he?" I taunt, batting my eyelashes slowly. I flip a bit of my hair behind my shoulder. "That's terribly too bad. I would _hate_ to see you in a bad mood." I advance on him, step by step, my advancement of low speed. My eyes narrow when his do, a light, playful mimicking. He glares at me slightly, making a smirk gradually come to my face.

And then he's taking me roughly by the shoulders. It's not like when the District Two boy tried to kill me, but it's still kind of scary. Adrenaline and fear shoot through a quarter of me, but the other three quarters feel excitement and joy.

"Listen here, bitch," he starts in a low, angry voice, and before he finishes, he pulls me into him and kisses me with that passion I thought he would kiss me with earlier, his forceful hand going to the back of my head, his other arm wrapping around me. I'm surprised and at the same time, this was so _expected._ I kiss him back. Though it's an act of care, I know Krumr is only barely capable of so little of that emotion. And I know this kiss is furious, an act of anger and that tiny bit of affection coming free.

He pulls away and shoves me lightly. I laugh. "I'm _listening,_" I tease.

But I want it again. The fury, the excitement, the passion, the affection. The roughness.

The freedom.

I want it again. I'll get it again.


	23. Chapter 23: Bird Scream

_I've finally updated! A lot of deaths this chapter._

* * *

Well I didn't tell anyone, but a bird flew by.  
Saw what I'd done. He set up a nest outside,  
and he sang about what I'd become.  
He sang so loud, sang so clear.  
I was afraid all the neighbors would hear,  
So I invited him in, just to reason with him.  
I promised I wouldn't do it again.

**"Bird Song" by Florence and the Machine**

* * *

**_D1- 18- (Gleam Diode)_**

Adelina has practically taken over with her "ingenious" idea of creating a transportation system for the supplies in the Cornucopia so we don't starve or dehydrate on our trek out to the woods in search of kills and whatever that those trees, so distant and seemingly unreachable, hold. That, in my opinion, idea of tempting us with something so far out of reach as more ingenuity in each and every tree's leaf in that forest than Adelina has in her entire body, and it's so honestly easy to think of that a four-year-old could.

"Gleam, get that stick over there," Adelina calls over to me, arms crossed, watching Jackson, Dante, and Azaleigh diligently work while Daphne and Vixen obediently search through the Cornucopia and around the bloodbath area for the supplies the new leader says she needs. I have no doubt that Daphne won't be taking up the job of pack leader after Adelina's stupid, stupid, stupid stunt with supplies.

Stone and I? We refuse to help out the idiocy playing before us. I never thought I'd agree with Stonesia Zhunder. Now we look at each other as Adelina barks commands at me like she's stupider than she actually is, and she's pretty damned stupid, the bitch. I hate her. Hate her, hate her, hate her. Cold fury pushes out of me towards her. I hate a lot of people. I _really_ hate Adelina.

"As if," Stone mutters under her breath, crossing her arms in a gesture of mockery directed at Adelina. I smirk a little and suppress an amused chuckle.

"I know, right?" I agree with a smile that I can't hold down. My hands are at my sides, ready to pull a knife from my sheath within a second's notice. If Ade, as Daphne calls her, gets pissed off and draws her silly little katana, my knife will be flying at her neck before she can even let out a scream. And then the rest of the Careers will turn on each other. At least, Daphne will turn on me. I can take her. Stone and I together can mutilate her. And Azaleigh, Jackson, and Dante will be neutral; they'll probably be indifferent to the change in leadership and the death of the Summerfields.

The idea of killing them both sends a jolt of pleasure through my body.

Adelina turns to us, frowns, and her frown turns to a stern glare. "Did you not _hear_ me?" she spits at us, and I raise an eyebrow, silently telling her that she's walking on thin ice right now without snapping at me. Fury I can control. Rage—well, if I go on a bit of killing spree out of rage, I bet I'll get a couple sponsors and lose my biggest competition. Part of me knows I'd lose my valuable allies too. But, hey, it wouldn't be my fault.

"Oh, I heard you. Hard not to," Stone says casually, and gives me a private little grin that only I see because Adelina is slowly processing that Stone insulted her. For a brief moment Stone is my best, best, best friend just for saying that.

"Shut up and get to work," she snarls, her hand going to her katana.

Stone and I both slide our hands over our throwing knives.

"Make us," I growl.

She knows she's been beaten—long distance weaponry beats hand-to-hand swords in a situation like ours any day—but she pushes it anyway. A cruel look gleams in her eyes and she takes a step towards us, almost scowling. I wish I could throw her off a cliff. Stone steps forward too. She's an impulsive little girl who hasn't been trained long enough to be here, but she's a good fighter nonetheless.

"Get." The first word out of Adelina's mouth is slow and insistent, like she's giving us a chance. Counting to three. "To." The second word is a little more demanding, the little patience left in her fading rapidly. "Work." And now she's yelling, advancing further, drawing her katana, and closing the distance threateningly. And Stone is closing the distance with her. I now see that her dagger, not her throwing knife, is out, ready for a close-up battle.

"Stop it, stop it!"

I haven't heard Azaleigh talk much, but I know that ever since she and Jackson started canoodling each other and kissing when they think we're not really watching, she's gone soft and peaceful, preferring quick kills and not liking to elongate the time taken to torture a victim like the rest of us Careers, who are all, admittedly, morbid, cruel, merciless sadists. I'd admit to that anytime though.

Everyone looks at her. Jackson and Dante kept working while we were fighting, throwing glances, but I now notice that Daphne, Vixen, and Azaleigh all stopped to watch us.

"We can't be killing each other!" she shouts. "We're allies!"

"Let's all hold hands and refuse to kill each other, then," I hiss.

Azaleigh throws me a glare that's not very angry and not very scary. The peacemaker is still most definitely Jackson, but she's his little apprentice.

"Get to work," Daphne calls from her post, and Stone and I both let out laughs. She looks us at a little bit questioningly.

"You…idiot!" Stone calls back from where we stand, leaning against the Cornucopia. "Oh, God, _please._ You work for _her._ She's going to kill ya in your sleep one day and I'm still gonna be alive to see it, and you know what? I'm gonna laugh."

I smile. Stone and I. Such unlikely but good partners.

The tension is rising. But everyone else suddenly leaves the fight. I can still feel it in the air, though. It's coming. The Careers' fight. And I'm going to love it.

* * *

**_D7- 16- (Damien Andrews)_**

Decon and I agree on one thing.

The girl's got to go.

Or Nick _and _the girl, for that matter.

He's too nice to her. Ever since we found her yesterday, he's been feeding her too much. We don't have enough food to be feeding her like she's royalty. He's not overly focused when she's saying something or anytime ever because of her, and we need him to be. He's a good fighter, and we're a group that needs to start fighting. The girl slows us down, too. She's wounded and all, in her head and in her calf.

"Do you think she'll survive for much longer?" Decon asks quietly as we walk ahead of Nick and Astrid, down the river between the dying grass and the desert.

The weather and the terrain change so suddenly in the sections of the arena. It's honestly a bit impressive and more than a bit scary that the Gamemakers have such control. I find myself drifting away from focus and gazing at the river longingly. Its water must be so cold, and I am so hot. But we have to make it to the woods. That's at least another week's trek. Eleven days. Most Games last up to an average of eleven to sixteen days. Of course, I may be miscalculating it. Because honestly I have no way of correctly calculating it.

"Because, I mean, that head injury's bleeding a lot and, hell, if she's gonna die, why risk killin' the alliance by killin' her, you know?" he says, taking a brief glance at Astrid, who's being carried by Nick. I glance back too. Blood from the wound to her head spills to his shirt.

She says that she hallucinated a lot before we found her. I think she hallucinates at night even now because of her head. I didn't get a very decent night's sleep because of her crying out at night, asking someone, anyone, to end it. And the temptation rose every time she woke me up last night. She wouldn't admit to it when Nick asked her this morning, but she must be lying. She hallucinates still.

"I think we ought to wait and see," I tell Decon with a shrug.

"True. Don't want to waste a perfectly good alliance," he agrees.

"Besides," I begin with a grin, "she won't make it through the first battle we have. And if she does…well, it'll be very hectic."

"Chaotic," Decon supplies with an encouraging nod.

"Nick won't even notice who kills her."

We grin and continue to walk toward the woods with the plan fresh in our minds.

The flatness of the arena allows a decent view for a long ways if you're standing atop some of the miniature hills here and there. The random patches of woods and shrubbery and other flora give food and shelter. There's no doubt why they're sporadically placed throughout the arena: we'd die without them. They offer us places to sleep, get warm, and find food. The Gamemakers don't want us to die of natural causes. They want battles.

But it begins to get hilly, which I am very grateful for. I've seen this hilliness coming since we started off on our long walk, and I knew that the hills would hide us sometimes. I know we need to get to fight so we can get sponsors and so the Gamemakers don't just send us into traps or send mutts at us, but admittedly I'm very, very afraid. The hills aren't safe, I'm aware, but they're safer. I just want to live. I want to go home so bad. The constant danger surrounding me is discouraging to that distant goal.

We walk for a while and then take a break. We all gather around and eat the birds we caught at the last copse after cooking them.

"We should really think about—" Astrid begins, but before she can finish Decon cuts her off.

He points over at something. It's late afternoon now. The sun has been to its highest point and has already started plummeting away so the moon can bring its eerie, silvery light to us while we sleep. Due to the almost sunset that's falling over us, the figure he points to is nothing but a big, black, moving line against the blue-purple-red horizon. Soon that blue-purple-red will turn into red-orange-yellow, and then blacken and blacken until there's nothing but little yellow and white dots against a dark sky.

"Look, it's a tribute," Decon announces.

Astrid looks annoyed to have been interrupted. I smirk.

"Should we go after him?" Nick asks.

"Or her," Astrid adds.

"Shut up," I say. This earns me a glare from Nick.

"Yeah, let's go," Decon says.

I look at the girl. She looks back at me, eyebrow raised slightly, but she's biting her lip shyly so it erases whatever affect the raised-eyebrow would have. "You can't come," I tell her. She can die at the next battle. Secretly, I don't want to kill her. She's so shy and sweet when we're not being rude to her. She's pretty and girly and fragile. I don't want to be the one to kill that. Decon can. "You'll only slow us down."

"And you're wounded," Nick contributes.

"Fine." Astrid's not hesitant to admit that she needs to stay back.

We take off at a walking pace, as Astrid suggests, saying we should reserve our energy for the fight. As we close in on the tribute, I can see that it's a somewhat large male. He doesn't seem too large, but he might be larger than all of us. Approaching further, I find that this is true. When he spots us, he tries to pick pace up further but falls behind quickly. We can overpower him, the three of us together.

We formulate a plan quickly. The fastest runner will loop around the boy to attack him from the other side while the strongest will go straight on and get him first. Then the second strongest and second fastest will go in from behind and get him there. The fastest will deal the last blow, hopefully, and then we'll escape into the sunset with Astrid and perhaps something from sponsors.

I'm the fastest. Decon is the strongest. Nick is in the middle.

I start my loop. I don't go the fastest I can go, since we're still not super close to him. Pretty quickly, though, I am, and I speed up. I look over and see Decon's axe entering the weaponless boy's neck. He collapses. It's over before it even started, and I'm starting to get pissed. But the boy is still alive! Nick sticks his sword in his back and I race at full speed to get to them so I can deliver the final blow before he dies with my hatchet.

_Killer._

A whisper in the back of my head makes me slow for a second, but I pick up pace again.

_I am a killer._

_I'm going to kill somebody._

_Going to end their life permanently._

I raise my hatchet before I even get there and strike it at his face. His screams of agony lower to a pitiful groan and his cannon fires.

We walk back to camp as I whisper silently to myself, unable to stop the voice before it says the awful three words: _I'm a killer._

* * *

**_D8- 13- (Alicia Ludwig)_**

Alicia can't think. Her head pounds. Her castle is full of monsters. Beasts the size of people war with each other, the horns coming from the top of their heads bashing at one another's. They don't see her yet as she cowers behind her throne and watches, but she fears that soon they will. The ceiling was collapsing each time a beast let out a rare battle cry, the sound of death and despair and evil.

_Demons,_ her mind supplies but it's not her thought. It's a thought from before she went mad. It's a different Alicia Ludwig's thought, a young little girl's with a mind that doesn't rage with insanity and anger and violent.

The biggest red human beast with the longest red horns and the evilest of all the terrifyingly sinister smirks and grins and grimaces emerges from a room she allows no one to go into: her room, filled with all the glories she may ever want or need. _Devil,_ the old Alicia tells the current one. _That's a devil. _The_…_ Before the old Alicia finishes her thought to the current, an even larger, deadlier savage monster tears barbarically through the walls of her castle.

Alicia screams madly against her own will, frightened by the entrance of the demon. She screams louder as the monsters transform, all except for the largest. It shrinks down to be ten feet tall instead of hundreds of feet tall. Its skin turns from red to a sickly pale bluish color, like ice, turning from a monster of pure devilish evil and fire to a coldhearted, bloody, sickening beast that represents death and all its allies.

The others turn into its servants: big sickly blue insects with oversized mandibles and mouthparts that naturally gnash like they're chewing. They're always hungry. And Alicia, queen of the palace and the kingdom around it, hears their thoughts. They whisper to her, cruel words that she's heard before…before…on the outside. When she's aware. When thing are bad.

_It's the insane girl,_ the Chomp Monsters whisper to each other, psychically linked to one another and Alicia herself.

_People are starving here and food is _wasted_ on retards like her._

_The bitch attacked me once!_

_She's insane._

_There's the psychopath._

_There's that stupid mad hatter chick._

Alicia starts to cry as she realizes what all this means, what all the people who ever say anything cruel to her meant. She realizes that the hominess inside her home, her castle, and the world outside of it, is entirely false. It's all not real. She's made it up for herself. She doesn't live there. She's not beautiful. She's ugly scum that doesn't deserve to live because she'll never do anything more than be insane and the food she eats is wasted. It could go to someone else.

She screams in the real world as awareness spreads through her and her castle fades. She looks around at the arena and everything comes to her too quick for her to handle. She moans in pain and sadness. And then she scurries around, looking for what she needs, what she knows she needs to do what she has to do. She screams all the time, her throat beginning to hurt because she's running and almost out of breath and then sucking air. Dehydrated, starving, aware and conscious of life as it is truly, Alicia frantically searches for something.

A stick. A rock. Something. If she can only find sticks she'll build a fire. But how can she do it with a rock? She has to build a fire. The biggest fire that anyone has ever seen.

A fire the size of a body. A body the size of a thirteen-year-old girl. A thirteen-year-old girl with the name Alicia.

She wails. She doesn't want to die but how can she live? She internally wars with herself but doesn't stop looking until she's found sticks and a rock. And then she tries for a long time to start the fire, but she doesn't know how to. She knows you need, like, sticks. Maybe rocks? She remembers just a fragment of people at the fire-starting station. Wail. Scream. Desperation to die and live too.

"Nooooo!" she screams the shrill shriek and falls to the ground. She doesn't know what to do. She doesn't know what's happening. She's plunging back into the castle but she doesn't want to go there. She is no longer Alicia Ludwig. Alicia Ludwig is dead. She is just a walking, breathing, talking body that's left over from a murder committed years and years ago. The body has to follow the name.

Maybe if she dies, she'll go to a place she remembers her parents speaking of sometimes in the back of her mind: Heaven. Heaven and Hell and the Devil and God. She doesn't want to go back to her castle. Her castle is Hell with its own Devil. She wants to go to Heaven where her God waits for her, and He holds her soul, waiting to return it to its body so she can live happily with Him in the sky.

She wonders if it's real. She wonders if it's a memory or if it's a figment of her imagination.

She sees a real-life Chomp Monster before her, gnashing, chomping, biting, chewing.

Extreme pain.

And then obliviousness.

* * *

**_D9- 17- (Fiona Ryder)_**

One minute I'm walking away, just away, away from where yesterday. I want to distance myself as far as possible. The next I'm faced with death again.

The blood has stopped flowing from my bad eye unless I prod it or try, painfully, to blink. The girl who killed Sage snagged my eye deeply with her sword and now it's useless. It's weird—seeing out of only one eye. The pain overwhelms the weirdness of the situation though. Searing pain shoots through my head. I have a headache, and the worst of it is directly above my left eye, which is my bad eye.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, jabberjays fly down around me. I look around at them and recognize them from previous Games. I wish they were mockingjays, the more preferable mutant jays. They only mock musical things. Jabberyjays mock voices. I raise an eyebrow at them as they continue to swoop. "Shoo," I say, annoyed. They echo the syllable repeatedly around me, annoyingly too.

I walk forward but run into an invisible wall. Blood is left on whatever the wall is made of from my eye.

Panic immediately swirls through me. I dart back the other way, arms outstretched, but my hands hit the other side three yards from the bloody wall. The right and the left walls are about three yards apart too. I judge how tall it is by looking up at how high a jabberjay that sits perched on the top is. I'm trapped in a prison that's probably impenetrable because of the damn walls.

Fear also hits me. I look up at the birds and see that when they mimic my "Shoo," long, sharp teeth are visible.

I scream in fear. The jabberjays mock my scream as they attack me, teeth sinking into my flesh. They chew at me until the agony is so great that I black out and don't wake up. The last thing I hear is my own scream.

* * *

**Tributes whose names are in bold are alive:**

_**D1- (Luxuries)  
**_

__**_1. Gleam Diode, 18, female. Megalor9_**

**_2. Adelina Summerfield, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_3. Daphne Summerfield, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_D2- (Masonry)_**

_**1. Azaleigh Rommel, 16, female. Araka-chan**  
_

_2. Beck Ferrari, 18, male. WhyNotDream  
_

**_3. Stonesia "Stone" Zhunder, 16, female. XOXOFutureFame  
_**

**_D3- (Technology)_**

_1. Forrest Montgomery, 17, WhyNotDream_**_  
_**

_**2. Calypso Oswald, 14, female. WhyNotDream**  
_

_3. Rylan "Ry" Ashmore, 14, male. the epic bookworm  
_

**_D4- (Fishing)_**

**_1. Vixen Payne, 17, female. jblonde123  
_**

**_2. Nelly Carter, 13, female. Bowserboy129  
_**

**_3. Jackson Brothel, 17, male. Araka-chan  
_**

**_D5- (Power)_**

_**1. Anya Saitov, 18, female. the epic bookworm**  
_

_2. Allegra Ride, 12, female. WhyNotDream  
_

_3. Tenne Bradhe, 18, male. BlueYoshGuy  
_

_**D6- (Transportation)**_

**_1. Dante Kyanide, 17, male. Megalor9  
_**

_2. Cade Allens, 17, male. bijtjen  
_

_3. Phoenix Grant, 18, male. the epic bookworm  
_

**_D7- (Lumber)_**

**_1. Decon Crow, 17, male. Bowserboy129  
_**

_2. Jaelyn "Jae" Nicole Analetto, 15, female. SpunkyFun_**_  
_**

_**3. Damien Andrews, 16, male. Jammerock2000**  
_

_**D8- (Textiles)**_

_1. Damon Grey, 18, male. sportygirl123 **  
**_

_2. Dan Axton, 17, male. Jammerock2000  
_

_3. Alicia Ludwig, 13, female. the epic bookworm_**_  
_**

**_D9- (Grain)_**

**_1. Asher Lightwood, 17, male. Rikachan101  
_**

**_2. Aeris Lockhart, 15, female. Rikachan101  
_**

_3. Fiona Ryder, 17, female. sportygirl123_**_  
_**

**_D10- (Livestock)_**

_**1. Nick DiLaurnetis, 16, male. CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal**  
_

_2. Jak Crenshaw, 17, male. Jammerock2000  
_

_3. Leo Rivers, 16, male. WhyNotDream  
_

_**D11- (Agriculture)**_

_1. Skylar Mitchell, 14, female. Jammerock2000  
_

_2. Kayla Baker, 16, female. Jammerock2000_**_  
_**

_3. Sage Birr, 17, male. the epic bookworm  
_

_**D12- (Mining)**_

**_1. Krumr Strongthews, 18, male. CapitolRules  
_**

**_2. Carlyn Hansen, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_3. Astrid Levine, 15/16, female. CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal_**


	24. Chapter 24: Run

_No one dies this chapter, so there is no tribute list at the bottom._

_This is just a little teaser chapter thing to announce something special._

* * *

_**D2- 16- (Azaleigh Rommell)**_

Storm clouds roll over the Careers as the sun tries to rise in the arena but the sun is concealed by clouds. As the morning progresses forward, the same dawn light stays as rain trickles from above, soaking Dante, Stone, and Gleam, who didn't find and grab umbrellas at the Cornucopia. If we have extras in our loads of stuff that we're carrying in the wheelbarrows and the transportation device things that we built, they're buried too deep for the three of them to find, so scowls are permanently on their faces as Jackson and I snuggle close to each other under our shared umbrella. The other three carry theirs around luxuriously.

As midmorning approaches—I think it's midmorning—trumpets blare all across the arena. Jackson and I look at each other, smile slightly at one another, and then wait for the announcement. Gleam, Dante, and Stone look up at the sky as it pours in sheets down on them. Lugging the covered supplies, they trudge along, annoyed. Jackson also lugs a covered wheelbarrow behind him, holding my hand with his free hand. I hold our umbrella over us.

"Hello and congratulations to the remaining tributes!" the announcing voice exclaims. "Soon there will be a feast in the arena!" Gleam and Stone's eyes light up a bit, and Adelina and Daphne are beaming. "However, the feast will be in the forest."

I don't know why they'd want a feast now. We've done a good job keeping up the killing, the Careers and the other tributes, and surely we've entertained the Capitol, right? I also hope that the flickers of romance between Jackson and me that we can no longer hide keep them satisfied with us as well. So with all that stuff going on, why order a feast to draw us together? Despite the largeness of the arena, we're all pretty well driven together.

And the last part worries me. We started late in going to the woods. We haven't made much progress toward the distant woods at all, what with our arguing and our packing and our building. I desperately hope the feast isn't too soon, because what if the other tributes all die out and we're not there? I won't get a kill. As much as Jackson has softened me, I'm still a Career and I'm still a good fighter and enjoy that sort of thing.

* * *

**_D4- 13- (Nelly Carter)_**

Calypso and I wake up late that day. I can see the trees painting the horizon. They're beginning to seem reachable. At our slow pace we can make it there by day nine—if we're still alive. We talk for too long and don't have time to hunt before we have to get up and hurry to the woods, especially since it begins to rain. The trees spreading out across the grounds are beginning to seem tangible instead of vague, unreal bits of my imagination - _our_imaginations, given to us by the Gamemakers and the Capitol.

Our footsteps are nearly silent in the wet grass as a light trickle of rain drizzles from the sky. The drizzle transforms from light raindrops dripping from the sky like water out of a faucet when you leave the handle turned just slightly, but everywhere, to a heavy shower. A million persistent faucets sit atop the clouds and everyone in the heavens have left the handles turned just slightly, dropping water down on our heads.

I know this isn't real rain. I suspect so at least. I imagine the sky is projected and the rain is also fake but it feels real. It's cold and as the sheets of droplets collapse on my skin, it feels like needles running into my flesh but no blood is drawn. Mix that with the wind blowing toward us, and the heavy rain spits in our faces. I wipe it away from my eyes and sting when a large drop comes unexpectedly into them.

Then the announcement. The announcer, with her clear voice, tells us the facts evenly. She goes on to say, "This is day five. The feast will occur on day seven of the arena. Currently it is eleven seventeen a.m."

I turn to Calypso and tell her to speed up.

* * *

_ **D5- 18- (Anya Saitov)**_

As soon as I hear the feast announcement, I decide I don't want to go. They're luring us together so they can see major bloodshed, and it's likely I'll be one of the people to shed blood. I'm good at working alone, killing lone tributes—and partners, I guess—but a whole feast worth of kids? It's another bloodbath. There's no way I'm going. I decide this immediately, and the fact that it is on day seven enforces that.

"For those of you who decide not to go, you will encounter some…surprises."

The tone of the announcer is viciously mischievous. She's telling us, _Go. Go or we'll send mutts and kill you. Go and have a chance at life or stay and be mutilated. _

It would really suck if I had stayed farther back for a while. I think about the Careers, who must be back at the Cornucopia, and smirk. _Bye-bye,_ I think. _It's not too bad at all that you had to go like this._

I sigh and continue my trek to the woods. I'm amused by the thought of the dead Careers, but still agitated that I have to go to the feast.

* * *

**_D9_**_-_**_ 17- (Asher Lightwood)_**

Aeris and I look at each other when the feast is announced. We grin a little bit at each other, realizing the other alliances will be screwed because they've already run off to the woods, away from the Cornucopia, and we'll be here to steal all the stuff before they even get close to being here. But then, when the announcer says it's in the woods, we realize the joke is on us and _we're_ screwed. How are we supposed to get there?

Then, the announcer says it's on day seven and I feel all hope of getting there drain out of me. It's not that big of a deal, because we have all the supplies in the Cornucopia to fall back on, especially since the Careers have packed up and left. So Aeris and I take each other's hands like the announcement was never made, closing our eyes and trying to take naps. We prefer the night now because there are less bugs out, and we've learned the hard way that some of the bugs outside are bugs you do _not_ want to be bitten by.

But the feast speech just keeps droning on! I sigh and listen in, and I can see Aeris does the same. We both stare out of the cave as if we can see the person speaking to us out there, standing in the middle of the arena. This cave is our home now, our safety. We have to make the short but tedious and time-taking journey to the Cornucopia for batteries and food every day now, and over the last day we've worked out a schedule for it:

We sleep from midmorning to afternoon. We get up and hunt around the mountain. Then as it starts to get dark, we go to sleep for another little bit. After that, when the sun rises, one of us fishes and one of us goes to the Cornucopia. We were prepared to do this for the rest of the Games, but the Capitol has other ideas, I suppose. Still, it's impossible for us to get there! We won't go. We can't.

"For those of you who decide not to go, you will encounter some…surprises," the voice above us says. Aeris and I look at each other, appalled. We're going to be killed because we can't get there. It's totally not fair. She lets out shaky, scared breaths, and I'm surprised by that much emotion from her. We look at each other for a bit after the announcer says, "Good luck and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Then we close our eyes and go to sleep.

We'll need as much rest as we can get.


	25. Chapter 25: All Okay

_This song has nothing to do with the chapter but I really like the song, so here you go!_

* * *

You cut me down a tree  
And brought it back to me  
And that's what made me see  
Where I was going wrong  
You put me on a shelf  
And kept me for yourself  
I can only blame myself  
You can only blame me

**-"Swallowed in the Sea" by Coldplay**

* * *

**_D12- 18- (Krumr Strongthews)_**

The announcement is easily blown over by Carlyn and me. We'll be there, no doubt. And even if we don't make it, I'll singlehandedly take on whatever stupidities thrown at us because we're not at the feast. Of course, Carlyn will help, but I _could_ do it singlehandedly. I _could_ slice open any mutt and decapitate their dying bodies because they can let out their sick cries of pain and fear from my mutilation. Surely it won't be as satisfying as taking a human's life, but it'll be like…like practice.

She points to something out in the grass. "Look."

I frown and look in the direction. "Grass," I mutter. "How _fascinating._"

"No, dipshit, look _up_ a bit," she tells me, and I look down at her harshly. She smiles at me and kisses my cheek, to which I glare more intensely. "Oh, sweetie, you know you love it when I annoy you! You only seem idiotic when you pretend not to." She seems to find this amusing and lets out a girlish giggle that I know is not like her real laugh. She nudges me playfully and then points away from us again.

"The woods?"

She nods and then points far, far behind us. "And look back there too," she says. "Woods."

I frown. "Yeah…? So…what's that mean?"

She rolled her eyes. "God, it's really good you're strong and handsome because you're not bright. At all."

I glared at her and she smirks and lets out the too-fake girly giggle. "Just tell me what you're thinking."

"Oh, so you care?" She grins at me and lets out a content sigh. "I care about something too. I'm going to wait a bit to tell you."

It takes me a second, but I realize she means she wants me to kiss her. The look on her face—a wry half-smile/smirk—confirms this, and I glare at her. Whenever I glare at her, though, she just laughs or giggles or grins, and now she laughs her real life. It's a pretty sound, laced with a load of mischievous and impatience too. She smiles at me fully now and stands on the tips of her toes to reach me, kissing me lightly, knowing full well I'll kiss her back and deepen it to both of our satisfactions.

When we pull away after a few breathless, dizzy, but exhilarating moments too long of kissing with forceful passion and tense, fiery temper and fury, we both catch our breaths and she takes my hand. Everything in my screams for me to rip my hand away and cuss at her, but I just roll my eyes and continue walking with my long, quick strides, trying to get to the woods faster. She has to work to keep up with me.

"Anyway," she says, and I remember her thing about the woods around the arena. Carlyn looks up at me. "So the woods go all the way around the arena. The announcer said the feast would be in the woods. But there's…er…there are a lot of us. I don't remember how many."

"Nineteen," I tell her quickly. She can pay attention to the meaningless, miniscule details, and I'll pay attention to the important stuff: whom I have left to slaughter.

"Whatever. So, nineteen of us. We're not all going single-file to the woods, are we?" she asks me rhetorically, and grins at me, a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. "It's a trap!" she exclaims suddenly, and I raised an eyebrow. "Some people went the other way! All the way across the arena." She swings my hand delightedly, considering madly what lies ahead of us. She can think of _what_ and I'll think of _how to kill it._ That's how we are: she thinks of stuff I don't care about and is Carlyn while she does it—and Carlyn and me, we're the only truly decent people left in this pitiful country, so being Carlyn is good—and I think about how to kill, who to kill, et cetera.

"There's no way they could find and travel to the right location," Carlyn continues. I'm actually somewhat interested in what she has to say; I don't want to be fooled by some stupid trick the Capitol has set up for us.

"What do we do about it?" I ask her.

She sighs and the giddiness fades from her as quickly as it had come. "Oh. That… That I don't know. But I'm working on it."

"How?"

"Well…" She shrugs. "Can we eat now? I'm hungry."

I shrug and stop walking, pulling my backpack off for her and handing her the gutted and cooked food I've hunted for. Who cares if someone comes for me? I'll kill them and make them beg for mercy. I _want _someone to be stupid enough to try to come to me and actually challenge me. Everyone in this arena, except Carlyn, is so far beneath me that it's rather sad how low he or she's gone, and how stupid or weak or both that they are.

We eat a little bit of food and find that we're starved. No matter how great we are, it's hard to find food out here. I have to force myself to tell her we can't eat anymore, that we have to save for later, and the resigned, defeated nod of the head she gives me makes me want her to be well fed. I know it won't help all that much, but I give her the rest of my dead bird anyway. There isn't much meat on birds, but we've been pretty desperate. Birds are gifts. And I like the taste of bird anyway. I'm used to it, at least, from hunting at home some.

"No, you should eat this," she tells me.

I shake my head and insist that she take the bird. She reluctantly, after a second, agrees, and eats the meat off the bone of the bird. I smile a little bit to see her eating and stop myself quickly, telling myself that this is stupid and that it'd be horrible if she saw. I'd never live that down. But she has seen, and I see the look in her eyes before she can extinguish it. Something like admiration fills them.

We're far more than what I thought we were. We don't just kiss for the passion roaring between us, or for the pleasure. We care about each other. This realization startles me. I care deeply for her. I don't want to see her hurt. But I know she must be, if I am to live.

All the same, whoever kills her, whoever harms her, or even so much as touches her…well, even _I_ pity them, though I will be the one to smother their useless face on the ground and spat in their face. I will be the one to slaughter them angrily, with fire.

"Krumr?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's go now."

* * *

_**D10- 17- (Nick diLaurnetis)**_

I clutch my spear and Astrid's hand. The announcement has frightened us all and we're rushing the final part of the journey, desperate to get there before the time is up. We have time; we'll make it. I have to tell myself this because I can't give up hope when I'm trying so hard to push it into Astrid. She clings to my hand and nods every time I say something encouraging, but I don't think she honestly believes my words.

"Nick," she says finally. I say, waiting for the words I know she's going to say. Or I think I know what she's going to say at least; we haven't known each other long enough for the other's actions to seem predictable. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me we'll make it anymore, really."

I look down at her. Her snow-white skin and her raven black hair are such a contrast that it's like her hair is the words on her skin, which is the pages of the book. Her long eyelashes flutter down as she blinks. "I'm sorry. I'm being…"

She smiles slightly. "I know." She stands tall on the tips of her toes to kiss my cheek, and I nearly blush.

It rains even in the desert area. We stick close to the river. It's freezing, and eventually we have to huddle together for warmth. Astrid and I watch in all of the amusement we can muster in the cold as Damien and Decon look at each other in alarm when they realize they need to huddle together too. With grouchy, irritated expressions, they extend their arms to each other and hug one another, but after a few moments both of them step away, shake their heads, and I hear Damien say, "I'd rather die."

If we're lucky enough to make it to the feast alive, we'll die from exhaustion and hunger. But judging by the weather and our good luck in finding a river, we won't die from dehydration. Still, the pull of hunger tugs hard and makes my stomach hurt. I've known hunger but not like this. The animals we've been managing to kill as they scurried along have so little meat on them, and divide that by four people…

Astrid's condition is bleak. She's wounded and has only eaten once since we've gotten in here, and being it day five I would say that that's not good. It wouldn't be so terrible if she didn't need energy from food for her body to fight off infection. She is so brave but so weak. I admire her and all I want to do is get her to safety and keep her safe there. Unfortunately, that would in the end result in my death.

If hunger and coldness and Astrid's impending death isn't enough to keep me worried sick, it looks like Decon and Damien are getting tense anytime they talk to Astrid and me. They look at us menacingly and they whisper together a lot. I fear the four of us will be splitting up soon, and I also fear that someone will die when that happens.

* * *

_**D3- 14- (Calypso Oswald)**_

"Speed up," Nelly told me earlier.

"Speed up," I tell her now.

Our stomachs growl, begging us to feed them, feed them, feed them. But we can't, because we ran out of food yesterday. And the fear of dehydration was strong yesterday as well, but now that our thirst is quenched, I fear we'll get hypothermia. There is no escaping the number of ways to die that are completely natural in the arena, because once one thing is resolved, the Gamemakers throw us another to make us scared for the Capitol.

As I think this, a parachute floats down from the sky, and my eyes widen. A sponsor gift! We've gotten a sponsor gift? This is my first one, and I'm so excited I go tearing into it as soon as I can reach it. Nelly watches from next to me, and we find a basket of two average-sized loaves of bread. One loaf of bread is tinted slightly green like the sea, and I give this to Nelly. The other is the sloppy crappy-looking bread of District Three. District Four's bread, while it must taste the same, at least looks nice.

And yet, the bread has never looked more beautiful. With all the self-control I have, I tear off a tiny chunk, throw the bread sopping wet in my backpack, and eat the little chunk. It in no way satisfies me, but instead, if it's possible, makes my hunger grow stronger. All the same, I keep going, fearing with intensity what will come after me if we don't get to the feast on time. I look over and see a big bite taken out of the bread as Nelly throws hers in my backpack.

Then, suddenly, she exclaims, "Okay, we're going to have to be very, very, very quiet now. And we're going to have to run…" She looks out, squinting through the rain. We're both shivering a lot. Too much. She points to some shrubbery and I wonder if it'll be warm under there as she tells me, "Let's run to that now and hide. We don't have very much time, okay? But we have time for you to just…turn around."

I do, and I see just enough to know we need to run. Tribute or mutt, something's over there, and I hope it didn't see us.

* * *

_**D6- 17- (Dante Kyanide)**_

The fools. The rich, arrogant fools with their "ingenious" ideas and their sponsors and their good looks. The idiots. They know nothing, absolutely nothing, and they will never understand what we need to do. They will never look to me either, the fools, when I know what must be done. We'll never make it to the woods. We should be readying ourselves for whatever is coming to punish us for not going to the feast.

I've faded to the background, doing their dirty work. I hardly think they know I exist. We continue to walk all day in the rain that does not cease. I'm soaked to the bone, shivering so bad that when I lean into our supplies and grab a bag of chips to snack in, hoping to keep my mind off of things, my fingers won't cooperate to get the bag open. I throw the bag at the wheelbarrow that Jackson is pulling, frustrated. Stone throws me a cold look.

"Don't," she snaps. "We may need those."

And the worst part is, it's true. The chips slide off the protective covering over the wheelbarrow and I sigh, wanting something to eat. I continue to walk until Adelina comes up to me and narrows her eyes as if this is the first time she's noticed me. The look gets my blood boiling, and in the anger of the rain and being so alone while surrounded by the Careers, I have to resist the urge to take my knife and shove it down her throat. She will be the first District One bitch I kill, and I will kill her slowly. I will injure Daphne and tie her down and make each other watch as I slowly kill the both of them, and then I will hunt Gleam down and shove a knife down her throat…

"Hey, Six," Adelina snarls. "Why the hell aren't you wheeling the cart?"

"'Cause it's not my turn," I mutter simply.

"What, idiot?" she spits at me.

Red-hot, dangerous, fist-clenching anger surges through me with such force I just want to kill anyone, anywhere, and torture them so they feel the anger and neglect I feel plus so, so much more. Everything I can think of to hurt them.

I clench my jaw, but the words come from me anyway:_ "_You listen here, _bitch!_ Everyone but your fucking idiot sister is sick of you and your…your…stupidity! I'm not wheeling your stupid cart."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel the anger seep away and know what I've done. I've condemned myself to death. I can see it perfectly in her fiery eyes. She gives me a warning glance that tells me she's going to kill me tonight, and oh, she's going to love it. I swallow hard and resolve to leave before them. I'm fast. I just need knives and poison. Knives and poison will be my salvation. I will outrun them, make it to the feast, and kill the girls there—

It thunders and I quake. I hate thunder and lightning. I hear Adelina laugh as she walks away. She calls to all the others cruelly, "Our mule back there's scared of thunder!"

Where there is thunder, there is lightning, and lightning can— boo-oo-oom! The thunder rumbles the ground and I shiver more. Lightning streaks through the sky and I make sure no one is looking while I force myself to go to the cart and pretend to examine some knives. They know I'll catch up quickly. I grab a couple and search as fast as I can for poison, but I only come up with what I think is poison before throwing it in my backpack because Gleam is calling back, "Six! Get up here! You're holding us back."

Maybe I'll kill her first.

* * *

**_D9- 16- (Aeris Lockhart)_**

When I open my eyes, I find that I don't remember falling asleep. I find that it's hard to remember anything. Things are wobbly, and facts swirl around in my head, mixing up with each other and confusing me. I continue to remind myself things as I see Asher is asleep. What's weird is, this all feels normal, like I've always had to think repeatedly, _I am Aeris Lockhart, I am Aeris Lockhart, I am Aeris Lockhart…_

Eventually the boy on the floor of the cave, whose name has slipped from me, wakes up, and he seems just as confused as me, but he snaps out of it quickly. He's very handsome and I want to kiss him. I stop saying my name in my head and walk over to him, kissing him lightly on the lips. He pushes me away and I frown at him, wondering why he didn't want to kiss me. Am I not as pretty as he is handsome?

"Aeris," the boy says, looking at me funnily. "What's up with you?"

"_That's_ my name!" I exclaim with a giggle. I lean against him and wrap my arms around him. "What's your name? I want to kiss you after I learn your name."

"Aeris Lockhart, stop it right now," he snaps, and I scoot back slightly, afraid of the angry look in his eyes. I don't know why he's mad at me, I don't know what I've done, and I just want to kiss him. That's all, that's all I wanted to do, so did he think I wanted to do something else? I wasn't trying to bite his lips off or something. That would be disgusting. So why is he holding me at arm's length and yelling things I can hardly even hear at me?

"What's your name?" I persist, and I feel tears going down my cheeks in my fear. "Please don't hurt me, nameless."

I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am. I don't know what I am. I don't know why I am. I don't know how I am. But that's okay. It's a little confusing but that's okay too.

"Aeris, please," the boy says softly, and now he's hugging me and rocking me and I find that I can't move but that's okay. I don't mind. Maybe the handsome boy wants to kiss me now. I let him rock me and feel wetness plop on my cheeks, but I know it's not my tears; it's his. I don't understand and I'm starting to get scared again. What's wrong? Why is nameless crying? I don't get it. What's going on?

"I'm Asher Lightwood, Aeris, and you're Aeris Lockhart and no, please don't go to slee—" But it's too late, because my eyes are already closing, and I find myself hoping that if he's not going to be normal next time I wake up and just kiss me, I don't want him to be there. Blackness swarms around me, and I can't move, and I don't really know a lot…but that's all okay. I don't know why, but it's all okay.

* * *

And off in the Capitol, the head Gamemaker said to one of the other Gamemakers, "Natalina, have you got a cannon ready?"

"Yes, I have," Natalina responded to her boss.

"Okay. Put it over...there." The Gamemaker pointed to where the death just occurred. "And let it go."

* * *

_...  
_

* * *

_I've put many tributes in some life-threatening situations and I'm not going to say who the death(s) was until the next chapter! So no tribute list. Hehehe.  
_


	26. Chapter 26: Trap

_Hey, guys. Sorry for not updating. It's summer, so I've been outdoors a lot lately. I'm also auditioning for Hello Darkness, My Old Friend, and I've been working on two characters for that. I'll update for real in about five days. _

* * *

The Head Gamemaker sat with the higher-up Gamemakers, watching the arena. Watching the clueless kids who had no idea what was coming. Watching and not feeling a sliver of regret that he was sending them all into a meticulously planned trap.


	27. Chapter 27: Hell to Pay

_Before you dive into reading this author's note, be warned—it's long. _

_So… hi, guys! Let me start off by saying I am **soooooooooo **sorry for the wait! I've been focusing on my characters for Hello, Darkness, My Old Friend, as you know, but now I am back and ready to make this my first writing priority as usual. I've also recently gotten new additions to the family (though not through birth; my dad's girlfriend and her daughters have moved in), and the oldest of her daughters is only a year older than me, so we've been doing a lot of summer stuff like riding bikes and playing Wii for hours when it's too dark, rainy, or hot to be outside, lazing around, playing softball, and just doing a whole bunch of random but fun stuff. Also, her two sisters really like me so I tend to have to entertain them, which isn't so bad since they haven't begun to annoy me and I hope they never will, but… you know how younger siblings can be, whether they're technically your siblings or not._

_Also, the fair came to town, and so the only writing I've been doing at all is a bit of my HDMOF character making and of course RPing. There's just not enough hours in the day, even if I do go to bed around three a.m. every night… I've also had four sleepovers in the last week because I've decided I've been severely antisocial when it comes to my friends this summer, but who cares? It just means I've stayed out of the summer drama. But I have wanted a few sleepovers before I have to go back to school and go to school softball (which is ten times busier than summer softball because it's an actual traveling, serious, this-is-for-winning-not-so-much-for-fun league, whereas summer ball is just this-is-learning-and-fun-time). And I'm determined to actually play this year, since last year I sat on the bench and played maybe ten times in total though we had games every weekday for about a month and total. But last year I sucked—and this year I think I've majorly improved. _

_Also, I'm in desperate need of more characters for the sequel. If I don't get them, I will ultimately stop writing this series—and that would suck because I have awesome ideas for the future—and write some Doctor Who or GONE thing or something. So submit, submit, submit, and if you know any SYOT-lovers on the site, maybe ask them to? I just really don't want to quit this series, and I know forty-eight is quite a bit of tributes to submit, I really like the sequel's Quell and I'm keeping it like it is._

_Anyway, on to the chapter! I hope you're all still with me, and that you enjoy and review the chapter. The feast is coming up… in three chapters? I hope so. This is the rest of Day Five, and I'm predicting now that Day Six will be relatively uneventful so it'll require only one chapter, and then Day Seven where the feast/trap/whatever-I-have-in-mind goes down!_

* * *

Oh, you can´t hear me cry  
See my dreams all die  
From where you´re standing  
On your own

It´s so quiet here  
And I feel so cold  
This house no longer  
Feels like home_  
_

**"So Cold" by Nikisha Reyes-Pile**

* * *

_**D9- 17- (Asher Lightwood)**_

Aeris isn't acting right. She's acting…loopy, and on top of that she's acting as though she remembers nothing, as if in the course of our mysterious nap that I don't remember taking she's been stripped of everything that makes her Aeris Lockhart. I woke up to see her staring intently at the floor. Her eyes darted up and that was the moment I knew something was wrong. The coldness, the emptiness that her eyes always hold was replaced by a far scarier emptiness—and the telltale expression was the giddiness. Aeris is not giddy. Giddy is a meaningless thing to her.

Looking into her eyes, I find myself slipping away…but the shock of seeing her like this keeps me away from doing that. I will protect this girl for as long as I can because we've come to be more than close. We have a strong, unspeakable bond that some may mark as romantic but we both know it's more complicated and more tangible than that. Romance is a dream in the arena; we've grabbed onto an alliance stronger than anything else because it was a solid fact.

She then throws herself at me, and it's so sudden that I jerk back. And anyway, it's Aeris. Not that I don't want to kiss her… But we shouldn't, not here. If we weren't in the arena, I wouldn't be pushing her away from me, but we are so I am. She frowns at me and the look of disappointment and sadness makes my heart melt and then my anger roar. The Capitol has done something serious to her, and they're trying to do it to me too.

I have just enough brainpower after our brief, forbidden kiss to think, _Maybe it has to do with the fact that we're not even trying to go to the feast. _

But I'll think about that more later because right now there is no time.

"Aeris," I say gently, looking up at her with concern. "What's up with you?"

"_That's _my name!" she exclaims, and I truly start to panic. She doesn't know her name? What's worse is she giggles. "What's your name? I want to kiss you after I learn your name."

I wonder if this is some cruel prank, and I know I should think better of her than that, but I'm really scared and I'd prefer if it was a sick joke that I could get angry at and then forget. But if this is losing her, if this is our last conversation, I can't take it. I don't want it. I don't want a world where these are our last words to each other and where one of us doesn't even know the other. The last few weeks would be gone—hell, her whole life is slipping from her fingertips, I bet.

"Aeris Lockhart," I begin in a contained voice, but then my anger and fear explodes, "stop it right now."

Aeris scoots back slightly, no doubt scared of my small outburst, but I can't help it. We're going to die anyway—or one of us is, at least, and maybe both. Probably both. Food and water aren't issues, but the fact of the matter is that we're defying the Capitol simply by not attempting the impossible for them. And while I don't want to defy them and get myself killed, I will die with the dignity of being smart. Dying because of mutts is, hopefully, faster than starvation or dehydration, right?

"What's your name?" she asks. I see tears starting to run down her face. "Please don't hurt me, nameless."

"Aeris, please." I lean forward and hug her close to me, rocking her, and she goes limp in my arms. This is the moment when I start to cry. I rock her more and hope that she'll come back to normal, all but forcing myself not to scream profanity at the Capitol, begging them relentlessly to _spare her. Take me, but spare her._ "I'm Asher Lightwood, Aeris, and you're Aeris Lockhart and no, please don't go to sleep! Please! Aeris, wake up!"

But it's far too late now. Her eyes are shut. Her heart still beats and she still breathes, but I have a feeling that if she wakes up at all, she won't be my Aeris anymore.

* * *

**_D5- 18- (Anya Saitov)_**

Movement.

That's all it takes to let me know that it's time to run.

I need food. I need supplies. I need kills. The wound in my stomach is faring well, but all the same I'd love to have medicine for it. I need whatever this movement was, but I'm not going to act like an animal. I don't want to turn into an animal. So I silently, stealthily, go toward them… but then I'm out in the open, and that's over. It doesn't take long at all for me to go from concealed to out in the open. It takes about two minutes.

Then I have to run, have to run quickly, and I do just that. The things I saw now reveal themselves to be tributes. I run, my feet pounding the ground, forgetting quietness—I'm ready for any attack right now. I need whatever food these tributes hopefully have. I need the love from the Capitol full of sponsors and Gamemakers. I need them to know I am fully prepared and ready to kill, and more than anything that I can do it entertainingly. I am not cruel, though; I will not draw it out. I will be sensible, I will be merciful—but I will be entertaining as well.

They are girls. I can see that as they dart to try to find a better hiding place, deciding I can see them—but ha! The joke's on them, because I couldn't see them. I knew the general vicinity in which they were hiding in, but other than that, I had no clue. They could've ran when I was checking somewhere too far off for me to hear if they were quiet enough, and could've gotten a good head start over me if they went as fast as they're going now—good enough that I may not see them or I may give up, deciding that it'll be too much trouble.

Now I know exactly where they are, and I'm not too far behind. I grin in amusement and to let the Capitol know that I am clever—much clever than them. Favor me, for I am worthy of victory. Sponsor me, for I am able to win. Love me, for soon I will be the face of the country even more so than the president, and so much more powerful. People cower down to the young, inexperienced lady we view as our ruler. They fear her and look to her for the rules, the crackdown. But victors? People worship them. They love them and look to them for future and for her to respect, what to do, how to act in this world, because we are survivors. We're stronger than the strongest because we are fearful and because we are clever and know all there is to know about the facts laid in front of us about this world. I don't care for the fame or for the money. I wish to survive at all costs, and the fame and the money? That's just a bonus.

My thoughts go from winning to killing when I get close enough to the girls. I don't pull out my sword yet because I'm running, but as soon as I'm near them, it's out. The girls have fierce determination in their eyes, but it's only amusing me more. I take a millisecond to see what I'm fighting—two little girls, one of them a bit off by the look in her eyes, with a couple knives in their belts and one with a machete—and then lunge at the one that seems to be the most competition.

The off girl with a machete attacks back. I feel the deep pain as her machete hits my shoulder and I spin a bit from impact. However, it doesn't take me long to recover before I swing my sword at her. Then I feel the knife in the back of my shoulder. The butt of the weapon hits me, and I laugh out loud at the girl's pathetic attempt at killing me. I turn to her and hit the sword at her, bracing myself for the pain from the machete that I know is coming. My sword goes in the hopeless girl's stomach. I twist, then yank. The girl screams, and her ally impossibly screams louder. Both are screechy and bloodcurdling noises, but the one in pain screams more subdued, and then resigns into shock of being killed, dying.

To my surprise, as I turn back to the insane girl, I wild swing from her machete that I don't have time to deflect or move away from gets a bit of my hand, and I yell out in pain as my pinkie drops to the ground. No matter how disgusting the sight is, I clench my teeth, look up at the girl, and see she's already running. Reflecting on the finger falling from me takes away time—but it hurts so bad! And I already killed one, didn't I? I can't do it. I'm so tired, so hungry, so thirsty, and so in pain…

I turn around and run away.

* * *

**_D3- 14- (Calypso Oswald)_**

I am numbed with shock and terror and sadness as Nelly kneels next to me, and whispers, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, please fucking live, please, Calypso, please." Only she pronounces my name "Cal-eepso," like someone people idiotically do and I find myself annoyed but in a better place, a place where getting angry with people who pronounce my name wrong is a pretty normal thing for an abnormal girl like me.

Then I snap back out of it, and even me, an aesthetic girl, cannot find a shred of beauty other than the bond of Nelly and me in this situation. Curiosity makes me ache with a tremendous force. I am curious about the other side, about death, and a million questions pound in my mind with each heartbeat, and while I am curious, I am terrified each time I take a shuddering breath that it's my last.

"Cal… talk to me… Please say something…"

I lift my eyes to her. Crumpled on the ground, she's leaning over me, knelt before me. I start to cry as I say, "It's going to take a long time for me to die, Nelly. I have to bleed out."

Nelly grabs my hand and squeezes. "I can heal you, then." I'm about to say something when she looks up to the sky and screams angrily and so, so loudly, "GIVE US MEDICINE! _SEND US SOMETHING FOR HER!" _

"Nelly…" I say softly. She's making me sad, so sad, and what I'm about to ask of her makes me so much sadder. "Stop. They won't." The tears stream down and my body is suddenly racked with sobs that send angry tendrils of pain through my body, especially around my stomach. She finally looks down at me, sobbing as well. It is visibly obvious that she is insane, just by the look in her eyes.

"Nelly, please," I whisper. "Nell, kill me."

* * *

**_D4- 13- (Nelly Carter)_**

_NOOOOOOOOOO!_

I think the word, but my mind is too scrambled to allow me to say it, so instead I let out the longest, loudest, scariest scream in the world.

While I scream, I ward off the killer by cutting off her finger. Tears stream as I scream, and I imagine my face is an ugly, contorted wreck. The girl runs off. The specifics don't get to my head, so all I know is: _Plop!_ and the finger's on the ground. _Whoops!_ and the girl is gone. It hurts, everything hurts, my head and my arm and my throat and my feet and my hands. I kneel next to Calypso and sob, sob, sob, the life out of me, and it hurts in a way physically impossible but so mentally real.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, please fucking live, please, Calypso, please," I whisper, tears strolling along, creeping down my cheeks. The dying girl in front of me is my last grasp to sanity, and now that she's dying… I'm so sad. I'm so, so sad. Calypso and Ryan. Gone. Calypso and Ryan. Calypso and Ryan. I miss Ryan so much. "Cal… talk to me… Please say something…"

She looks up at me and cries. "It's going to take a long time for me to die, Nelly. I have to bleed out."

I grab her hand and hold it tightly, looking at her sadly, but the look on my face cannot possibly tell her how sad I feel. I don't want to be insane. I don't want her to die. Spiders. I like spiders. Squirrels. I hate squirrels. They will take over, but McLovin will rise from the dead and save us all…

"I can heal you, then," I tell her determinedly. Fueled now by rage, I scream, thirsty for the blood of the bitches that won't save her, "GIVE US MEDICINE! _SEND US SOMETHING FOR HER!" _

She says things. I can see her mouth moving, but I'm screaming too loud, and then she's sobbing and I'm sobbing and looking down at her.

She asks me for the impossible. She asks me to kill her.

I look at my machete and sob harder. "Please, Nell!" she screams. "It hurts and I don't want to wait to bleed out."

I don't even know what I'm doing. I pick up the knife that ricocheted off the girl who killed her. I put it in her heart. I scream. The robotic movements allow only unanimated thoughts, but back, way back, in my head, I scream. I sob. Out loud, just before she goes, I say, "NOOOOOO!"

And then I collapse, and she goes absolutely limp.

My kill.

She was my kill.

* * *

Astra is eleven years old. She is not old enough for tesserae, she is not old enough to go into the Games, but she is old enough to watch them. She's also old enough, and has been since birth, to be trained to be prim. Proper. Perfect. Calypso, her sister in the Games, always rejected her mother's insistence to be sophisticated, quiet people, and though Astra understood why, she never really understood her sister as a whole, but she has always loved her.

Now she watches as she dies.

Her mother is holding her right hand. Her father has her left. She sits in between them on the couch in their living room, watching the television, seeing the scene in the arena miles and miles away unfold thirstily. But they are not thirsty for the entertainment the Capitol wishes for—they are thirsty to see the turnout of this battle that promises to result in at least one casualty. What worries the Oswalds most is that Calypso is practically unarmed compared to her insane, vicious ally and the emotionless girl trying to kill them.

The commentator, Mira Wendenburg, and the new interview, Gem Yngsi, watch in delight, which makes Astra furious. Mira says, "Oh! Calypso's down."

"I liked her too," Gem says, like Astra's sister, Astra's Calypso, is already dead. She can get out of this. Astra knows this. She has to.

Astra watches as the nameless murderer that's killed her sister turns to her sister's ally Nelly. She silently hopes that the machete that is swinging wildly in Nelly's hand cuts off the girl's head, and because of this kill they get medicine to heal the gaping, bloody, disgusting black hole in Calypso's stomach. But she knows it's not possible, and all that Nelly gets is the girl's finger. It falls to the ground. Astra turns away, not wanting to see that, but she doesn't stay turned around long enough. She sees the bloody stump and feels sick to her stomach. Does it matter though? The Capitol will break her—if not now, then in the next Games, and she will see far grosser things. A bloody finger? That'll be nothing in the years to come.

"Oh! What do you know—Nelly just took Anya's finger!" Gem says, quite excited. Astra doesn't care about properness as she thinks about just how satisfying it would be to slit Gem's throat. Then she thinks with horror, _They've already desensitized me. _She didn't throw up like she used to when she saw blood on the television… She doesn't want to be what they want her to be.

Anya runs, and the Games pause and look to Gem and Mira's reactions to the fight scene before the inevitable death is shown. She knows it's coming, but Astra refuses to accept it until the cannon sounds. She knows it will and it hurts. That sound will be the most painful in the world, and fuck primness—she'll be pissed, and she'll let it show that she is _not_ the Capitol's puppet or her mother's puppet. Astra will be her own, and she'll be the silent rebel by not being who everyone wants and expects her to be. Till the day she dies.

* * *

**_D12- 16- (Astrid Levine)_**

They turn on us before we can even react.

Nick kisses my head with a weak smile and guides me along. I wish he would stop trying to reassure me but I say nothing about it. I hold his hand and squeeze his periodically to let him know that I'm fine. He returns the favor and I know that I appreciate it, even if I can just look over at him and see that he's perfectly fine. Still, the squeeze is better than anything I see; sight can easily be an illusion, a trick from the Capitol. Feeling him, the warmth and the small pressure—that's real.

As I am thinking this, I see Damien and Decon finally stop their whispering and turn, weapons raised. I scream and I don't even know why until I feel the pain in my chest. Down. I'm falling and there's nothing to do. Nick is charging at the boy… Damien… He was the one with the hatchet, right? And Decon had the axe? Or was it the other… other way around?

The sight of the hatchet did not scare me. Could've been fake… Should've been…

My head hurts.

Nick! What's Nick doing? _Get back here, Nick,_ I try to say, but my brain won't let the words come out of my mouth. _Nick, please, I need you! Nick!_ He's fighting them away, using the sword savagely. He wants them to go away. Why does he want them to go away? The D boys are so… so… what's the word? Funny. They're funny! Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha. I will miss them when they go.

Oh, wait, does it have to do with the pain in my chest? It doesn't hurt that bad, but I dimly remember it hurting before that a lot worse. What did they do to me? What happened?

Nick kneels down next to me and I see the D boys are gone. What're their names? I don't know. Nick is bloody and I try to wipe away the blood. I wonder how it got on him… He scolds me though and I begin to cry. I don't know why he's so sad, but he is. I can tell. His pretty, warm, kind eyes are sad. Why are they sad? Why won't anyone answer me? Oh, that's right, I'm not talking.

"Astrid…" he says. He's crying. He kisses me and I really like it. I smile widely and squeeze his hand, remembering that he likes that and I like that too. But it only makes him cry harder and I frown. I see something in my chest and my eyes widen as realization comes to me… but then it slips away. What was I thinking about just then? _Answer me, damn it, Nick!_

"Say something, Astrid. Please. Say _something…_"

I swallow. "N-Niiii-c-ck." Why is my voice so raggedy? Oh. Thing in chest. Blood! Blood! D boys.

Eyes closing. Can't stop them. Feels nice… Brain… won't work.

Nick…

_"Astrid!" Cara calls, smiling as she comes over to me in the schoolyard. "Hey! I had fun the other night, didn't you?"_

I remember things, some recent and some from so long ago…

Mommy and Daddy are fighting. _"Evangeline, damn it, Astrid's gonna wake up. Let's take this outside."_

_I'm already awake. And I'm scared. But I know Mommy and Daddy love each other._

_"No!" Mommy screams. "Grover, you get out of my house, and you come back when you're ready to apologize!"_

No, Daddy, don't go! _I think, but I don't say it._

Nick's eyes. I like them.

I remember once an old lady tripped over my foot and hit me with her cane. I was little. I didn't mean to almost make her fall. But she hit me anyway, and I cried and my daddy said she was a mean old woman and that I should not ever go near her. I told him I didn't want to and he smiled slightly, wrapping his arms around me and saying, _"I know, Astrid. I'll have your mother make an ice pack."_

Fighting with my mom.

_"You snuck _out_?!" she screams. _

_I cringe. I knew I shouldn't have, but Cara begged me. "Cara—"_

_"No excuses!" _

_"It wasn't my fault, though, Mom…"_

_"Go to your room! Now! You will not be allowed to leave this house or have anyone over except for school and the reaping, Astrid Levine!"_

I'm hungry. And I feel wet and my eyelids don't want to stay open, but no one's coming so I keep on wailing. And no one's coming still. And I am so, so angry.

He's still looking down at me when I come out of my trance. And his eyes are the last things I see.

* * *

**_D12- 17- (Carlyn Hansen)_**

I hold Krumr's hand on my watch, knowing he won't let me do it any other time without getting frustrated eventually. I think this is cute, but I have more of a heart than he does and I crave the affection I know that he won't give me, and if I win, no man will ever give me the affection I wish for. I wish for the freedom of making out or having sex—which Krumr and I have not done and will not do because I'm not like that and because I'm not stripping for the whole Capitol to see—but I also like holding hands, the man stroking the woman's hair. I want that as well, and the fact that I have to get it while Krumr is asleep angers me a little bit.

I sigh and pull my hand away, thinking more about Krumr himself than the two of us and our intimacy. I don't want him to die, nor do I want him to be tricked, though I can spot the traps easier than he can. We almost ran into a snare that someone set and then abandoned, but I pointed it out seconds before he stepped into it. He pretended to be annoyed that I saw it and he didn't, but I knew he appreciated what I did and that he was somewhat impressed.

I know it's almost his shift and I'm glad. I want to sleep. Before I wake him up, I ponder what will happen on Day Seven, and also what might happen if we don't go. Surely mutts will attack us or something—or is that too cliché? Do the Gamemakers have something new up their sleeves, or are they sticking to what they know so well? It doesn't really matter because I won't ever know. I'm not risking it.

I pull my hand out of Krumr's and wake him up, and just before I fall asleep, I feel him take my hand.

* * *

**_D1- 17- (Adelina Summerfield)_**

I'm woken up by a sharp pain.

It's dark outside, but I'm still really tired so I know it can't be all that late. The pain is in my throat. It's so dry. I pick up my water bottle and take a long, long gulp to hydrate myself. Still, my throat feels so dry… I wonder why.

I put on my night vision glasses and see Daphne's awake. Deciding to talk to her, I stand up and expertly move over all the sleeping people, when suddenly an eruption of pain sends me tumbling to the ground and I cry out. I start to cough a deep, throaty, disgusting cough that makes my insides feel like soup, and it gets louder and louder and more and more painful.

"Ade?" Daphne says worriedly, coming to my sides. I begin to throw up as I cough, coughing so hard and throwing up so much stomach acids after last night's dinner has already left my stomach. My throat feels raw and I want to scream in agony but I can't. Daphne pats my back as she, terrified, screeches, "Adelina! Oh, my God, what's going on? What can I do?"

I can't talk though. My mind is beginning to feel funny and I collapse in the pool of bloodiness that I threw up and coughed up. I stop coughing and lie in the disgusting, sticky puddle, wondering what the hell just happened. My throat still hurts too much to talk, and I feel like my stomach is eating itself out. The pain is so awful that I grasp my hair and begin to tear clumps of it out, but that does not compare to the rawness of my throat and the pain in my stomach. I try to swallow, try to talk, and the stinging in my throat increases tenfold.

I hear Daphne stand up and look through my pack. She inspects my water, and I can't tell because of the slight greenness my glasses put off, but I think her face pales. She turns to me and says quietly, so, so quietly, "Oh, my God, Ade. Nightlock. There was nightlock in here. Someone poisoned you." By now everyone is up but Dante. Everyone's eyes are wide, because though they can't see, they can hear. "Everyone, give me your packs _now_," snaps Daphne.

And then the world fades quickly into darkness.

* * *

**_D6- 17- (Dante Kyanide)_**

And the first District One bitch is down.

I'm awake the whole time that she's dying but I don't show it, mainly because I'm not entirely sure that I completely emptied my backpack of my supply of nightlock, and acting as inconspicuous as possible will save my life. I must live, too, if only to kill Daphne and Gleam as well. But I'm set on living through these Games, determined to win. However, with a bunch of angry Careers knowing I killed one of their own… the odds of survival begin to dwindle.

"Get up, asshole," Gleam spits, nudging me. I narrow my eyes and glare at her. Luckily she's not wearing night vision glasses, so she doesn't see the glare.

Daphne checks all of the backpacks and then she picks up mine. I hold my breath and suppress a grin when I look at the body of Adelina Summerfield, one of the bitchiest brats in the entire fucked-up, bitchy country. No one sees the corners of my mouth tilt up for a split second as I revel in the glory of avenging my dead brother and ridding the world of her nuisance of an existence.

I didn't have any poison to get the job done, so I figured nightlock would work out, though it's a bit messier. I'll need to clean my fingers up or keep them covered tomorrow because they're stained with berry juice, and that'll be a dead giveaway to the fact that I killed her. I only hope that they don't turn on me just because I'm an outside Career before I can find the time to kill the other two District One hoes and then flee. It'll be difficult. I may only have the time to kill one of them before I have to run from the Careers, and I can let someone else take care of the last one or I can kill her in the final battle. Either way, as long as she dies, I'm satisfied because I killed the worst and most annoying one.

The wrath of her sister will be great if she finds another Career decided nightlock would be a good thing to keep in handy. I actually hope that happens because it would be very entertaining to see happen: to see her flip out and then kill them slowly and probably with the vicious help of a few other Careers who're eager for a kill of any sort, whether it's truly theirs or not. I doubt Daphne will let them carry out the final blow. It would be even more entertaining to see her flip on someone for taking the final blow of the supposed killer of her sister. I can tell how protective the girl is—was—of her sister.

She searches through mine. Then she slowly slides a pair of night vision glasses onto my face. I frown. But then I get it. Her fingers slowly, painfully, draw out something from my backpack. It's a straggler from the clump of berries that I stupidly did not see and left precariously and mindlessly in my backpack. It's the doom, the death, the damnation of me. And I am most certainly in this second damned.

Daphne pulls out one nightlock berry. She stares at me savagely, and before I know it, she's on top of me, screaming and shoving the nightlock down my throat. I spit it back up, and she gets to work on torturing me. I know no one will help, but I scream the word, in pain, anyway. This death is so lonely. There is no one to come help me. No one ever would.

* * *

**_D1- 17- (Daphne Summerfield)_**

I feel such strong emotion over Adelina's death that my chest physically hurts, and my heart mentally hurts even more. Emotions swell, and I know that I cannot sob but that's all I want to do. The need to let out all the pain through crying relentlessly would be invited, welcomed happily. I can't seem weak, even after this, to my fellow Careers. I just want to apologize to my sister for all the fights we've had, and hug her and tell her I love her and promise her that she can win—not me. Not me if it means she dies. She can live with the pain that will forever bring me.

I take my knife and slit his arms. Long, deep cuts go up the length of his limbs now, and he's still screaming though the worst is to come. I now take my cleaver and cut both of his hands off with a bit of effort. Then his feet are taken off swiftly. After that, in my rage, I yell at him several choice words repeatedly. I take off his nose and scoop out his eyes. It starts to get disgusting but I am so, so angry. I cut his lips off and then drive a knife into his heart. I don't even know when the cannon sounds, whether it was before the knife to the heart or not.

The other Careers stare at me in something like awe for what I just did to the boy from Six. I snap at Jackson, "Take the scum's body and his parts. Throw them somewhere. I got my sister." He nods and quickly does as he's told, while I delicately pick my sister up and walk far away, as far as I dare. I lay her down, kiss her forehead, and shed the tears I don't dare to shed back at camp. "Goodbye, sister." And then I walk away. Away from my best friend, my sister. My blood.

_I will win for you._

_And the Capitol will have hell to pay._

* * *

_A/N: That chapter was so hard to write! I mean, I didn't have writer's block, but it was so sad. I really liked all the characters I killed here, but to be honest I was saddest with Calypso. She is my Rue. But it'll be very fun to see Nelly go even more insane than Gray after Ryan - especially since she lost Ryan as well as Calypso and she was already a bit off before their deaths - and I hope that WhyNotDream stays with the story and reviews even though all of her tributes are dead! _

**Tributes whose names are in bold are alive:**

_**D1- (Luxuries)  
**_

**_1. Gleam Diode, 18, female. Megalor9_**

_2. Adelina Summerfield, 17, female. CapitolRules_**_  
_**

**_3. Daphne Summerfield, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

**_D2- (Masonry)_**

_**1. Azaleigh Rommel, 16, female. Araka-chan**  
_

_2. Beck Ferrari, 18, male. WhyNotDream  
_

**_3. Stonesia "Stone" Zhunder, 16, female. XOXOFutureFame  
_**

**_D3- (Technology)_**

_1. Forrest Montgomery, 17, WhyNotDream_**_  
_**

_2. Calypso Oswald, 14, female. WhyNotDream  
_

_3. Rylan "Ry" Ashmore, 14, male. the epic bookworm  
_

**_D4- (Fishing)_**

**_1. Vixen Payne, 17, female. jblonde123  
_**

**_2. Nelly Carter, 13, female. Bowserboy129  
_**

**_3. Jackson Brothel, 17, male. Araka-chan  
_**

**_D5- (Power)_**

_**1. Anya Saitov, 18, female. the epic bookworm**  
_

_2. Allegra Ride, 12, female. WhyNotDream  
_

_3. Tenne Bradhe, 18, male. BlueYoshGuy  
_

_**D6- (Transportation)**_

_1. Dante Kyanide, 17, male. Megalor9_**_  
_**

_2. Cade Allens, 17, male. bijtjen  
_

_3. Phoenix Grant, 18, male. the epic bookworm  
_

**_D7- (Lumber)_**

**_1. Decon Crow, 17, male. Bowserboy129  
_**

_2. Jaelyn "Jae" Nicole Analetto, 15, female. SpunkyFun_**_  
_**

_**3. Damien Andrews, 16, male. Jammerock2000**  
_

_**D8- (Textiles)**_

_1. Damon Grey, 18, male. sportygirl123 **  
**_

_2. Dan Axton, 17, male. Jammerock2000  
_

_3. Alicia Ludwig, 13, female. the epic bookworm_**_  
_**

**_D9- (Grain)_**

**_1. Asher Lightwood, 17, male. Rikachan101  
_**

**_2. Aeris Lockhart, 15, female. Rikachan101  
_**

_3. Fiona Ryder, 17, female. sportygirl123_**_  
_**

**_D10- (Livestock)_**

_**1. Nick DiLaurnetis, 16, male. CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal**  
_

_2. Jak Crenshaw, 17, male. Jammerock2000  
_

_3. Leo Rivers, 16, male. WhyNotDream  
_

_**D11- (Agriculture)**_

_1. Skylar Mitchell, 14, female. Jammerock2000  
_

_2. Kayla Baker, 16, female. Jammerock2000_**_  
_**

_3. Sage Birr, 17, male. the epic bookworm  
_

_**D12- (Mining)**_

**_1. Krumr Strongthews, 18, male. CapitolRules  
_**

**_2. Carlyn Hansen, 17, female. CapitolRules  
_**

_3. Astrid Levine, 15/16, female. CallingMeFakeWontMakeYouReal_


End file.
